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CHANGE 


VOLUME  VII 
The  Drama  League  Series  of  Plays 


VOLUMES  m 
THE  DRAMA  LEAGUE  SERIES  OF  PLAYS 


I. —  Kindling       ... 
II. —  A  Thousand  Years  Ago 
III. —  The  Great  Galeoto   . 
IV. —  The  Sunken  Bell 
V. —  Mary  Goes  First  . 
VI. —  Her  Husband's  Wife  . 

Vn. —  Change 

VIII. —  Marta  of  the  Lowlands 


By  Charles  Kenyan 
By  Percy  MacKaye 
By  Jose  Echegaray 
By  Gerhart  Hauptmann 
By  Henry  Arthur  Jones 
.  By  A.  E.  Thomas 
.  By  J.  0.  Francis 
By  Angel  Guimerd 


Other  Volumes  in  Preparation 


J.  O.  FRANCIS 

AUTHOR     OF     "change,"     WHICH     WON     THE     LORD     HOWARD     DE 


WALDEN    PRIZE 


CHANGE 


BY 

J.  O.  FRANCIS 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

MONTROSE  J.  MOSES 


Garden  City      New  York 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1915 


CO// 
C5 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED  BY   WALTER  HAST,   PRODUCER 
AND   AGENT 

Covyrighl,  1913,  hy  JOHN  OSWALD  FRANCIS 


In  its  present  form  this  play  is  dedicated  to  the  reading 
pubhc  only,  and  no  performances  of  it  may  be  given. 
Any  piracy  or  infringement  will  be  prosecuted  in  accord- 
ance with  the  penalties  provided  by  the  United  States 
Statutes: 

Sec.  4966. — Any  person  publicly  performing  or  representing 
any  dramatic  or  musical  composition,  for  which  copyright  has 
been  obtained,  without  the  consent  of  the  proprietor  of  the  said 
dramatic  or  musical  composition,  or  his  heirs  or  assigrns,  shall  be 
liable  for  damages  therefor,  such  damages  in  all  cases  to  be  as- 
sessed at  such  sum,  not  less  than  one  hundred  dollars  for  the 
first  and  fifty  dollars  for  every  subsequent  performance,  as  to 
the  Court  shall  appear  to  l>e  just.  If  the  unlawful  performance 
and  representation  be  wilful  and  for  profit,  such  person  or  per- 
sons shall  be  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  conviction  be 
imprisoned  for  a  period  not  exceedine;  one  year.  —  U.  S.  Revised 
Statutes,  Title  60,  Chap.  S. 


INTRODUCTION 

There  is  nothing  more  fraught  with  the  elements  of 
tragedy  than  a  tradition  which  battles  against  change; 
nothing  more  likely  to  win  our  sympathy  than  youthful 
response  to  a  p>owerful  call  for  a  new  order  of  things. 
Following  in  the  footsteps  of  Ibsen's  "The  Masterbuilder," 
the  stage  has  been  given  a  number  of  dramas  that  have 
exalted  the  younger  generation.  Especially  in  the  so- 
called  "new"  drama  of  England  has  the  topic  been  a 
favourite  one.  Such  plays  as  the  late  Stanley  Houghton's 
"The  Younger  Generation,"  Miss  Githa  Sowerby's  "Ruth- 
erford &  Son,"  and  Mr.  Francis's  "Change"  have  brought 
to  bear  on  the  subject  all  the  minuteness  of  observation 
which  characterizes  their  "school."  But  there  is  an  ethical 
difference  between  Mr.  Francis  and  the  other  dramatists 
mentioned;  he  carries  the  art  of  the  realist  to  a  very  high 
pinnacle  by  being  eminently  fair;  by  allowing  his  sense 
of  justice  full  swing.  After  a  close  reading  of  "Change," 
one  cannot  help  but  feel  that  all  of  the  characters  have  been 
given  a  fair  chance  to  express  themselves  upon  their  most 
poignant  interests,  and  in  accordance  with  their  separate 
training  and  tradition.  It  is  only  toward  the  end  of  his 
play  that  Mr.  Francis  throws  the  weight  of  his  sympathy 
on  the  side  of  Gwen,  and  adds  the  saving  human  grace  to 
an  otherwise  earnestly  conceived  problem  of  change. 

In  a  very  picturesque  fashion,  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett's 

r.v] 


INTRODUCTION 


** Milestones"  illustrated  the  truth  that  the  new  order 
becomes  old  in  the  face  of  a  newer  order  still;  such  is  the 
law  of  progress.  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw,  in  "Fanny's  First 
Play,"  however  vigorous  his  plea  for  youth,  made  unpro- 
gressive  O'Dovoda  a  sympathetic  figure,  and  cast  a  sur- 
prising glow  of  sentiment  around  formal  religion;  perhaps 
he  is  beginning  to  feel  the  force  of  Browning's  "Grow  old 
along  with  me.  The  best  is  yet  to  be,  The  last  of  life  for 
which  the  first  was  made."  Yet,  after  reading  these  vari- 
ous plays,  I  return  to  Mr.  Francis's  "Change"  with  the 
conviction  that  it  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  studies 
of  the  younger  generation  we  have  thus  far  had. 

"Change"  is  a  notable  play.  It  has  intrinsic  literary 
value,  its  dialogue  containing  much  to  stamp  it  as  a  drama 
of  national  significance  and  of  excellent  workmanship. 
In  its  social  philosophy,  it  is  so  very  extreme  in  expression 
that  one  has  p>erfect  right  to  regard  it  as  a  play  of  to- 
morrow rather  than  as  a  drama  of  to-day.  This  extreme  at- 
titude suggests  that  the  author  himself,  with  his  quickened 
understanding,  has  broadened  his  scope  as  a  dramatist,  and 
has  within  himself  a  far-reaching,  democratic  spirit. 

There  is  another  interesting  claim  that  "Change"  has 
to  our  recognition;  its  compact  canvas  introduces  for  the 
first  time  in  modern  drama  Welsh  atmosphere  and  Welsh 
tradition.  A  pioneer  play  assuredly  affords  us  an  oppor- 
tunity of  regarding  its  historical  p)osition  in  the  country  of 
its  birth.  If  history  repeats  itself,  and  Wales  is  on  the  eve 
of  a  literary  flowering  such  as  that  through  which  Ireland 
has  passed  under  the  inspiration  of  Mr.  Yeats  and  Lady 
Gregory,  "Change"  will,  sooner  or  later,  be  regarded  as 
the  first  of  a  line  of  native  plays  with  a  particular  genre 
of  its  own. 

[vi] 


INTRODUCTION 


To  my  mind,  the  mere  fact  that  "Change"  is  a  prize 
play  is  its  least  recommendation.  Those  judges  who,  in 
1911,  awarded  one  hundred  pounds  to  Mr.  Francis  because 
he  had  conformed  with  Lord  Howard  de  Walden's  con- 
dition that  the  successful  contestant  should  have  sub- 
mitted "the  best  play  written  by  a  Welsh  author  and 
dealing  with  life  in  Wales  —  a  Welsh  setting  with  Welsh 
characters" — those  judges  must  have  felt  a  delightful 
satisfaction  that  a  competition  should  have  been  the 
means  of  encouraging  the  creation  of  such  a  piece  as 
"Change,"  with  its  sense  of  life  under  human  and  social 
stress.  But  what  seems  to  have  been  a  mere  vagary  of  a 
prize  competition  has  turned  out  to  be  something  of 
national  significance  to  Wales.  In  1912  and  1913  Lord 
Howard  continued  to  oflFer  prizes,  and  at  last  he  found 
that  he  had  on  hand  a  sufficient  number  of  plays,  together 
with  what  he  himself  had  written  under  the  pseudonym 
of  T.  E.  Ellis,  to  form  a  rei>ertory  of  native  dramas.  He 
was  further  encouraged  in  his  next  step  by  the  fact  that 
when  "Change"  was  given  its  first  London  production  by 
the  Incorporated  Stage  Society  on  December  7,  1913, 
it  was  hailed  by  the  leading  critics  for  its  distinction  of 
dialogue  and  for  its  forceful  ideas. 

Thus  encouraged.  Lord  Howard  foimded  the  Welsh 
National  Drama  Company,  himself  serving  as  chairman 
of  directors;  this  company  is  bi-lingual,  its  object  being, 
as  in  the  history  of  the  Irish  theatre,  to  encourage  the 
native  tongue,  which  seems,  with  the  rise  of  the  younger 
generation,  to  be  losing  hold  on  Wales. 

Again,  "Change"  adds  still  further  to  its  significance 
by  being  the  initial  play  to  launch  the  Welsh  National 
Drama  Company  when  it  began  operations  at  Cardiflf  in 

[vii] 


INTRODUCTION 


May,  1914,  the  first  instance,  so  Mr.  Francis  writes,  "of  a 
performance  in  Wales  of  a  Welsh  play  by  a  professional 
repertory  company  in  the  history  of  the  country."  And 
it  is  encouraging  to  hear  that,  so  far,  the  venture  has  been 
successful,  artistically  and  financially. 

Wales  is  now  beginning  to  open  up  to  the  influence  of  the 
theatre.  For  centuries  she  has  remained  indifferent  to 
drama,  receiving  no  impetus  from  the  period  of  mystery 
and  miracle  plays,  or  from  the  Elizabethan  era.  As  Mr. 
Francis  declares,  this  was  probably  due  to  the  fact  that 
Wales  had  no  towns  and  cities  "to  foster  the  most 
'social'  of  the  forms  of  literature."  From  the  legendary 
and  chivalric  influence  of  the  Arthurian  cycle,  Wales  suc- 
cumbed to  the  gloom  of  Calvinism  during  the  great 
Puritan  Revival.  So  that  it  is  only  now,  when  Wales 
seems  on  the  verge  of  social  and  industrial  upheaval,  that 
drama  declares  itself  a  force,  without  any  native  tradition, 
without  any  evolutionary  history  to  trace.  Full  grown, 
it  declares  itself  with  modern  technique  in  such  a  play  as 
"Change." 

In  this  twentieth  century,  nevertheless,  Wales  is  forced 
to  adopt  a  mediaeval  custom.  All  the  towns  and  cities 
are  to  be  found  in  the  south  of  the  country  —  where  the 
industrial  people  live.  To  the  north  the  population  is  al- 
most entirely  agricultural,  and,  therefore,  more  scattered 
and  diffuse.  The  Welsh  National  Drama  Company  has 
adopted  a  novel  expedient  of  "taking  the  drama  to  the 
people,  where  they  cannot  get  to  the  drama."  During  the 
summer  of  1914,  the  directors  intend  purchasing  a  travel- 
ling theatre  for  the  country  districts,  fully  equipp>ed  with 
electric  lights,  and  drawn  by  traction  engines.  More 
modern  in  its  arrangement,  with  the  tradition  of  the 

[viii] 


INTRODUCTION 


modern  theatre  to  follow,  yet  does  this  not  suggest  the 
pageant  wagon  of  old,  which  was  wont  to  wheel  the  miracle 
and  mystery  plays  of  the  fifteenth  century  through  the 
streets  of  Chester,  Coventry,  and  York?  It  will  be  curious 
to  follow  the  outcome  of  such  an  undertaking.  "This  is 
not  to  be  a  mere  travelling  booth,"  declares  Mr.  Francis. 
"Hamlet"  and  "Macbeth"  in  a  theatre  booth  were  Mr. 
Francis's  first  introductions  to  drama  when  he  was  a  boy. 
A  new  play  was  put  on  every  night,  with  an  entrance  fee 
of  three  p>ence.  "  We  sat  around  the  fire  in  a  bucket,"  he 
writes,  "staring  and  hypnotised,  we  boys,  while  the  har- 
dened men  about  town  cracked  nuts  and  lifted  the  blas^ 
ginger  beer  bottle." 

It  would  seem  that  one  of  the  strongest  forces  with  which 
the  Welsh  National  Drama  Company  would  have  to  con- 
tend is  the  spirit  of  Calvinism  which  has  so  long  held  the 
Welsh  people  in  its  grip.  From  what  Mr.  Francis  has  to 
say,  I  glean  that  these  pioneers  who  are  at  the  head  of  the 
drama  movement  girded  themselves  bravely  for  a  long  and 
arduous  fight,  inasmuch  as  instances  had  been  known 
where  actors  were  denounced  as  emissaries  of  the  devil 
himself,  and  were  brought  up  to  render  an  account  before 
the  various  chai>el  authorities.  Yet  these  pioneers  foimd 
nothing  to  fight.  "In  the  main,"  Mr.  Francis  asserts, 
"the  chapel  people  have  been  with  us,  and  the  London 
Union  of  Welsh  Chapel  Literary  Societies  made  us  sit  up 
and  think  when  they,  last  winter,  produced  under  their 
auspices  a  play  that  is  the  most  biting  attack  on  Welsh 
Nonconformity  yet  written." 

Indeed,  change  is  befalling  the  Welsh  i)eople,  and  two 
of  the  most  vital  aspects  of  Mr.  Francis's  play,  now  that 
I  know  something  of  the  man,  are  the  national  and 
[ix] 


INTRODUCTION 


autobiographical  influences  in  almost  every  line  of  the 
text.  The  sincerest  work  is  that  which  is  drawn  from 
the  innermost  recesses  of  one's  heart  and  one's  conviction. 
"Change"  shows  a  realization  of  all  that  is  significant  in 
the  modern  spirit  settling  over  Wales;  it  reveals  a  young 
man's  own  deep-rooted  political  faith.  But  though  it  be 
autobiographical  and  national,  the  great  literary  value  of 
"Change"  lies  in  the  very  fact  that  it  is  not  insular  in 
spirit  as  is  so  much  of  the  work  of  the  Irish  playwrights. 
With  all  these  new  forces  at  work  within  the  author,  it  is 
surprising  how  lacking  in  conscious  pose  "Change"  really 
is.  Nevertheless,  through  correspondence  it  has  been  my 
privilege  to  learn  something  of  Mr.  Francis's  own  tradition, 
and  I  cannot  help  but  see  in  "Change"  the  intellectual 
features  of  the  author. 

Mr.  Francis  has  lived  the  life  of  Aberpandy  in  his  own 
home  town  of  Merthyr  Tydfil,  where  he  was  born  on  Sep- 
tember 7, 1882.  He  was  reared  among  the  industrial  f>eople 
of  South  Wales,  and  has  been  bred  in  their  traditions.  He 
has  gone  the  road  of  John  Henry  at  the  University;  he  has 
felt  some  of  the  industrial  unrest  of  Lewis;  and  through  it 
all  he  has  maintained  a  large  part  of  the  sanity  of  Gmlym. 
In  his  own  person,  he  is  representative  of  that  new  force 
which  has  entered  Welsh  life  through  the  extension  of 
education  in  the  Intermediate  Schools  and  colleges  —  a 
force  which  has  done  much  to  widen  the  breach  between 
the  older  and  younger  generations  —  such  a  breach,  for 
example,  as  almost  disrupts  the  Price  household. 

"Change"  is  national  in  so  far  as  it  represents  truth- 
fully the  industrial  situation  confronting  the  men  in  South 
Wales  now  and  to-morrow.  It  depicts  with  understanding 
and  sympathy,  the  religious,  social,  and  economic  problems 

[x] 


INTRODUCTION 


likely  to  confront  the  inhabitants  of  a  small  Welsh  town, 
dependent  upon  the  coal  and  iron  industries  for  existence. 
In  its  labour  disputes,  in  its  riots,  in  its  expression  of 
political  thought,  it  reflects  the  whole  trend  of  Welsh 
sentiment  and  development  for  two  generations.  Mr. 
Francis  knows  the  workings  of  that  mill  of  destiny  which 
destroys  the  happiness  of  the  Price  family.  So  many 
things  in  Wales  have  been,  as  he  expresses  it,  of  sudden 
creation.  With  full-grown  force  these  things  have  swept 
in  on  the  Welsh  p>eople  like  an  unexpected  tide,  and 
loosed  the  younger  generation  from  their  moorings.  The 
peasantry  and  the  leading  men  of  the  industrial  districts 
gave  the  money  for  the  founding  of  their  university, 
situated  at  Aberystwyth,  by  the  sea.  Little  did  they 
think  what  instrument  they  were  putting  into  the  hands 
of  the  younger  generation;  little  did  they  realize  what  the 
scientific  spirit  of  inquiry  would  do  when  it  grappled  with 
such  a  religious  revival  as  that  headed  by  Evan  Roberts. 
This  suggestion  of  the  local  problem  throws  infinite  light 
upon  the  character  of  John  Henry,  the  preacher-boy.  The 
inevitable  cleavage  amidst  such  forces  results  in  tragedy, 
especially  where  we  have  human  nature  that  clings  so 
tenaciously,  as  the  Welsh  nature  does,  to  what  it  believes. 
"I  think,"  Mr.  Francis  comments,  "we  take  things  more 
grimly  than  our  Saxon  neighbours.  Whatever  we  do,  we 
go  the  whole  way.  Once  we  were  tremendous  Catholics. 
We've  also  been  tremendous  Calvinists.  Once  we  fought 
in  the  last  ditch  for  Charles  Stuart  and  the  Divine  Right 
of  Kings.  Now  we  are  in  the  advance  guard  of  democracy, 
and  Lloyd  George  is  our  great  man.  But,  remember, 
whichever  side  it  has  been,  we've  always  been  it  utterly." 
No  man  could  have  written  "Change,"  holding  casual 

[xil 


INTRODUCTION 


views  on  social  questions.  However  truthfully  an  artist 
depicts  conditions  as  they  strike  his  outward  eye,  he  cannot 
help  but  colour  them  with  intellectual  comment  of  some 
kind.  All  during  his  novitiate  years  in  Wales,  Mr.  Francis 
absorbed  unconsciously  the  meaning  of  what  was  taking 
place  around  him.  He  saw  Socialism  slowly  gain  hold  in 
Wales.  In  his  childhood  he  heard  his  elders  argue  the 
cause  of  Liberalism,  and  during  his  school  years  he  used 
to  follow  in  the  trail  of  the  ever-present  p)olitical  orator. 
Ostensibly,  so  he  writes,  he  did  this  in  order  to  record 
their  speeches  in  shorthand,  which  he  was  studying  at  the 
time.  Gradually  the  voice  of  labour  began  to  be  heard. 
"So  you  see,"  declares  Mr.  Francis,  "once  revolution  gets 
into  Welsh  blood,  there  is  not  going  to  be  much  hedging, 
or  over-politeness,  or  concern  for  the  sub-sections  of  a 
schedule.  The  tide  of  labour-thought  was  on  the  flow. 
Merthyr  Tydfil  used  to  return  two  Liberal  members.  I 
was  at  Kier  Hardie's  first  meeting.  He  was  returned  with 
a  Liberal.  Merthyr  did  not  know.  I,  a  small  boy  in  the 
audience,  did  not  know.  But  the  step  was  pregnant  with 
significance." 

W^ith  this  training,  there  gradually  began  to  dawn  upon 
Mr.  Francis  the  deep  import  of  the  labour  disputes  he  heard 
around  him.  He  went  through  precisely  the  same  sort  of  a 
strike  which  he  has,  in  "Change,"  painted  with  skill  and 
understanding.  His  recollection  is  vivid  of  the  appearance 
of  soldiers,  and  the  charge  of  the  pjolice.  The  killing  of 
GwUym  on  the  wall  is  a  sUce  of  life  from  the  history  of 
Lit  nelly. 

As  a  part  of  all  this,  Mr.  Francis  did  not  at  first  measure 
the  fuU  weight  of  the  social  revolution  at  hand.  Then  he 
went  to  college,  having  thrown  his  sympathies  in  with  the 

[xiil 


INrRODUCTION 


socialists,  and  having  joined  the  Fabian  Society.  All  this 
while  he  was  reading  Ibsen,  and  in  diverse  ways  fitting 
himself  for  newspaper  work.  But  after  he  had  taken  his 
degree,  he  went  to  Paris  and  taught  English,  returning  as 
teacher  to  Wales,  where  in  a  coal  and  iron  town,  Ebbw  Vale, 
he  again  felt  the  pulse  of  something  new  throbbing  through 
the  land. 

Then  he  moved  to  London  and  foimd,  as  so  many  have 
found  before  him,  that  in  order  to  see  his  own  country 
aright,  a  man  must  go  away  from  it  and  view  it  from  afar. 
He  has  remained  in  London  ever  since,  teaching  in  a 
Grammar  School,  and  hearing  the  loud  murmurs  of  dis- 
satisfaction in  South  Wales.  Sometimes  he  has  paid  visits 
to  the  overwrought  industrial  districts.  "It  was  impos- 
sible not  to  feel,"  claims  Mr.  Francis,  "that  there  was 
arising  something  grimmer  and  more  desperate  than  the 
old  Liberal-Labour  attitude,  or  even  the  'official'  socialist 
outlook  that  came  next.  The  men  often  refused  to  follow 
their  leaders.  They  sometimes  turned  on  them  savagely." 
What  was  to  be  the  next  step?  Just  what  Levns  attempts 
to  preach  in  "  Change." 

"It  is  obvious,"  continues  Mr.  Francis,  "that  old 
methods  of  industrial  warfare  are  being  suspected  as  in- 
adequate. I  do  not  think  there  is  any  organized  syn- 
dicalism in  South  Wales  —  nothing  to  speak  of.  But  the 
p)oint  of  view  from  which  it  rises  is  there,  and  is  growing. 
There  is  something  about  syndicalism  that  is  not  quite 
consistent  with  the  Gascon  temperament.  French  people 
take  to  it.  The  Welsh  may  take  to  it.  It  is  there  —  the 
next  stage,  i)erhaps  —  just  unfolding.  It  follows,  there- 
fore, that  the  newest  miners'  leaders  are  always  the  most 
VJQknt." 

[xiiij 


INTRODUCTION 


These  political  demarcations  are  very  excellently  il- 
lustrated in  the  social  views  of  John  Price,  Dai  Matthews, 
Twm  Powell,  and  Lewis.  Of  course  the  situation  in  the 
play  is  more  or  less  intensified,  as  it  should  be  in  drama» 
and  it  is  this  added  force  which  makes  "Change"  rather  a 
play  of  to-morrow  than  of  to-day.  "Though  the  forces 
are  arrayed  as  I  try  to  point  out,"  explains  Mr.  Francis, 
"the  new  rebels  have  not  quite  as  much  pwlitical  influence 
as  I  have  given  them  —  the  reason  being,  I  think,  that 
many  of  them  are  not  voters,  while  the  old  workmen  and 
the  trading  classes  are  still  powerful,  usually  householders, 
etc.,  making  a  soUd  phalanx.  If  the  proposed  bill  for 
Manhood  Suffrage  goes  through,  one  of  the  first  things  I 
shall  look  for  will  be  an  accession  of  strength  to  the  young 
men." 

Personally  I  do  not  contend  that  all  this  interesting  in- 
formation is  necessary  for  the  general  appreciation  of 
"Change,"  but  it  has  everything  to  do  with  the  evolution 
of  "  Change  "  as  coming  from  the  author.  I  feel  that  in  the 
light  of  what  has  here  been  narrated,  we  are  better  able  to 
understand  Price's  tradition  as  opposed  to  Socialism, 
Agnosticism,  the  new  Theology,  and  all  the  other  products 
of  Satan  against  which  he  rails.  So  can  we  the  better 
realize  the  rights  of  his  case  in  the  light  of  the  sacrifices  he 
has  made.  To  the  average  theatregoer  all  this  will  appear 
very  undramatic.  Especially  in  America  we  are  not  prone 
to  argue  our  political  faith  before  audiences  with  the  force 
of  newspaper  editorials;  we  must  have  the  outward  situa- 
tion in  order  to  stir  interest.  The  first  three  acts  of 
"Change"  are  intensive;  this  Glamorgan  drama  is  one  of 
character  —  individuals  struggling  for  the  maintenance  of 
their  own  standards.  In  all  works  of  art,  so  Coventry 
[xivl 


INTRODUCTION 


Patmore  claims,  there  is  a  point  of  rest;  particularly  in 
drama  where  all  of  the  characters  are  supposed  to  be 
involved  in  the  action  of  the  piece,  there  are  one  or 
two  persons  whose  attitudes,  or  whose  views,  may 
be  regarded  as  normal.  In  "Change,"  we  are  able  to 
apply  this  theory  to  Gtoilym  and  Sam  Thatcher.  The  in- 
valid brother,  p>oetic  by  temjierament  and  loving  by  nature, 
is  a  mean  between  the  extremes  of  John  Price  and  his  other 
two  sons;  we  realize  this  in  that  speech  of  his  where  he 
defends  the  narrowness  of  the  old  brigade.  He  is  the 
ajjostle  of  moderation.  IVIr.  Francis  is  here  expressing  him- 
self; he  stands,  holding  the  scales  with  weights  in  equal 
balance.  Then  there  is  the  opportunist  philosophy  of 
Sam  with  which  the  majority  of  our  audiences  will  agree. 
He  is  the  one  real  creation  of  the  play,  for  he  dep)ends  on 
no  problem,  on  no  social  theory  for  liis  attitude  toward  life. 
He  is  an  observer  —  what  one  critic  wisely  called  the 
Chorus  of  the  play.  In  his  aptness  at  most  poignant  mo- 
ments, lies  the  humour  of  the  play.  But  it  is  purely 
humour  of  character. 

At  the  end  of  the  third  act  of  "Change"  there  begins 
what  is  commonly  known  as  action  in  the  theatre.  With 
no  semblance  of  trickery,  Mr.  Francis  resorts  to  a  trick 
which  has  become  so  shop-worn  in  the  hands  of  less  ar- 
tistic and  less  earnest  playwriters.  No  better  handling  of 
a  scene  off  stage  can  be  imagined  than  that  of  the  riot, 
where  Gwen  is  told  of  the  killing  of  GwUym.  From  that 
p>oint  to  the  close  of  the  drama,  the  emphasis  is  shifted 
from  the  intellectual  to  the  human  and  emotional.  One 
can  almost  indicate  the  exact  spot  where  Mr.  Francis  re- 
belled against  the  intellectual,  and  threw  his  favour  on  the 
side  of  the  mother  who  is  the  real  one  upon  whom  the  whole 
[XV] 


INTRODUCTION 


tragedy  falls.  It  is  this  sudden  shifting  to  the  human  as- 
p>ects  of  his  characters  that  gives  an  unnecessary  incom- 
pleteness to  "Change."  In  neither  John  Henry  nor  Levns 
is  there  any  realization  of  what  they  must  face  in  the 
future. 

But  is  it  necessary  for  a  drama  of  this  type  to  oflfer  a 
solution?  Mr.  Galsworthy's  "Strife,"  having  shown  the 
innate  inabihty  of  both  capital  and  labour  to  come  to  a 
compromise  understanding,  leaves  his  problem  almost  where 
he  found  it.  His  other  plays  are  equally  as  non-committal. 
"Change"  simply  states  in  a  moving  drama  what  Tenny- 
son put  into  a  poetic  line,  that  "the  old  order  changeth, 
yielding  place  to  new."  And  in  that  transformation,  some- 
where a  tragedy  is  certain  to  take  place;  somewhere  the 
innocent  are  bound  to  suffer. 

As  a  concession  to  the  management  tha'  brought 
"Change"  to  America,  where  it  was  produced  in  New 
York,  at  the  Booth  Theatre,  on  the  evening  of  January 
27,  1914,  Mr.  Francis  had  his  final  curtain  fall  at  the 
moment  when  John  Price,  witness  to  the  spiritual  agony 
of  the  mother  whose  sons  have  left  her,  consents  to  write 
John  Henry  in  conciliatory  tone.  While  there  may  be  a 
human  justice  to  warrant  such  a  compromise,  I  cannot 
but  feel  that  "Change"  was  conceived  in  the  spirit  of 
tragedy,  and  as  tragedy  it  should  be  taken.  It  is  there- 
fore with  some  gratification  that  I  find  the  original  ending 
has  been  retained  in  the  present  edition.  It  seems  to  me 
that  the  snapping  of  Gwen^s  spirit  as  the  curtain  falls  is  one 
of  those  necessary  moments  which  the  whole  structure  of 
the  play  demands. 

"Change"  met  with  a  most  deplorable  and  undeserved 
ireception  in  America.    Its  first  week  was  as  disastrous  as 
[xvil 


INTRODUCTION 


that  of  Mr.  Charles  Kenyon's  "Kindling,"  and  though  ef- 
forts were  made  to  save  so  worthy  a  production  from  dis- 
aster, it  failed  to  have  the  later  success  which  "Eon- 
dling"  attained.  This  American  repudiation  in  no  way 
detracts  from  the  significance  of  "Change"  as  a  serious 
work  of  art.  It  is  not  a  flawless  play  either  in  its  struc- 
tural elements  or  in  its  intellectual  capacity.  But  it  is  a 
big  play,  showing  the  earnestness  of  a  new  author.  Wales 
has  every  reason  to  be  proud  that  its  theatre  activity  has 
begun  with  such  a  drama  as  "Change."  Some  say  that 
it  failed  because  it  was  advertised  as  a  Welsh  play,  and 
theatregoers  believed  they  would  be  offered  an  enter- 
tainment in  a  strange  tongue.  Others  lay  the  cause  of  its 
non-success  to  the  fact  that  its  local  problems  had  to  do 
with  Wales  instead  of  America.  Yet  to  my  mind  the 
very  spir"  ^  of  unrest  which  permeates  every  line  of 
"Change"  lifts  it  out  of  its  atmosphere,  and  gives  it 
meaning  wherever  there  is  industrial  unrest,  wherever 
the  old  order  is  pitted  against  the  new;  wherever  there 
is  a  struggle  for  survival,  social,  economic,  or  religious. 
It  makes  no  difference  whether  a  man  mixes  in  his  talk 
phrases  that  are  unfamiliar  to  the  ear.  One  finds  such 
phrases  in  "Change,"  since  Mr.  Francis  for  the  sake  of 
atmosphere  had  to  adopt  some  suggestion  of  local  sjjeech. 
He  therefore  resorted  to  a  common  characteristic  among 
famihes  in  Wales  who  speak  English;  he  brought  in  familiar 
Welsh  terms  that  have  the  force  of  household  proverbs. 
Nevertheless,  faithful  as  Mr.  Francis  may  have  been  to 
the  requirements  of  Lord  Howard  de  Walden's  prize  com- 
petition, "Change"  is  bigger  than  its  environment;  it 
is,  in  fact,  so  far-reaching  and  inclusive  as  to  be  vague  at 
moments.  The  realist's  method  has  here  been  practise 
[xvii] 


INTRODUCTION 


with  a  simplicity  that  has  been  scarcely  surpassed  in 
the  history  of  the  "  new  "  drama.  After  reading  "  Change," 
however,  we  are  tempted  to  ask  whether  we  have  not  a 
right  to  expect  that  the  future  realist  should  strive  to 
sound  a  stronger  note  of  spiritual  exaltation,  along  with 
the  exercise  of  an  intellect  which  aims  to  be  fair  and  just 
and  brooks  no  deception. 

MoNTsosi:  J.  Moses. 
New  York  City,  July  20,  1914. 


[xviii^ 


Presented  by  the  Incorporated  Stage  Society  at  the 
Haymarket  Theatre,  December  7th,  8th,  and  9th,  1913, 
with  the  following  cast: 

John  Price Habding  Thomas 

Gwen,  His  Wife Lilian  Mason 

Gwilym  Price Harold  West 

Sam  Thatcher Frank  Ridley 

Isaac  Pugh Tom  Owen 

Lewis  Price R.  A.  Hopkins 

John  Henry  Price John  Howell 

Dai  Matthews Gareth  Hughes 

Ttom  Povoell William  Hopkins 

Jinnie  Pugh Doris  Owen 

Lizzie  Ann,  a  Poor  Relation     .     .     .  Eleanor  Daniels 

Play  'produced  by  Tom  Otoen 


Ar  arferion  Cjnnni  gynt 
Newid  ddaeth  o  rod  i  rod; 

Mae  cenhedlaeth  wedi  mynd, 
A  chenhedlaeth  wedi  dod. 
Ceiriog, 


CHANGE 

act  I 


CHARACTERS  IN  THE  PLAY 


John  Price An  old  collier 

Owen His  wife 

John  Henry  ") 

Letvis  > Their  three  sons 

GwHym         J 

Sam  Thatcher Their  lodger 

Lizzie  Ann A  foot  relation 

Isaac  Pugh 
Tvrni  Powell 
Dai  Matthews 
Jinnie  Pugh 

Time:  The  Present 

The  action  of  the  Play  takes  place  in  the  living-room  of 
the  Prices'  cottage  on  the  Twmp,  Aberpandy. 

Act  I.  A  Thursday  Afternoon, 

Act  II.  Sunday  Evening, 

Act  III.  Monday  Morning. 

Ad  IV,  Afternoon  of  a  day  five  toeeks  later. 


ACT  I 

Scene:  Living-room  of  the  Prices'  cottage  on  the 
Turnip,  Aberpandy. 

The  walls  are  covered  vrith  paper,  hold  in  design,  hut 
now  rather  faded.  On  the  left,  looking  from  stage 
to  audience,  there  is,  in  the  hack  corner,  a  door  lead- 
ing to  the  road,  and,  in  the  middle  of  the  wall,  a 
window  with  simple  curtains  and  a  plain  holland 
hlind.  Through  the  vrindow  is  seen  a  rough  wall. 
On  the  right,  in  the  middle  of  the  wall,  is  an  old- 
fashioned  fireplace.  The  fire  has  not  heen  lit, 
and  there  is  a  cheap  paper  screen  hefore  the  bars. 
On  the  mantelpiece  above  are  brass  candlesticks, 
clock,  flat-irons,  tin  tea-canisters,  etc.  In  the 
corner,  up  sta^e  from  fireplace,  is  a  door  leading 
to  the  back-kitchen,  and  thence  to  the  little  garden. 
On  the  same  side,  down  stage  on  the  other  side  of 
the  fireplace,  is  another  door,  leading  to  the  parlor. 
The  furniture  is  humbly  serviceable,  and  has  seen 
long  usage.  At  the  hack,  in  a  central  position, 
[3] 


CHANGE 

stands  an  old  dresser  hung  with  jugs  and  set  with 
plates.  A  simple  vase  filled  with  sweet  peas  is  on 
the  second  shelf.  On  the  lowest  shelf  stands  a  row 
of  well-worn  hooks,  and  two  small  book-shelves,  well 
stocked,  hang  one  on  each  side  of  the  dresser.  There 
are  five  ordinary  kitchen  chairs,  usually  arranged 
in  the  following  way  —  one  a  little  down  stage  from 
the  window,  one  near  the  parlor  door,  one  near  the 
kitchen  door,  and  one  on  each  side  of  the  dresser. 
There  is  also  a  high-hacked  wooden  armchair. 
In  the  middle  of  the  room  stands  an  old-fashioned 
round  tahle,  covered  with  a  faded  red  cloth.  At  the 
hack,  one  on  each  side  of  the  dresser,  are  pictures 
of  Gladstone  and  C.  H.  Spurgeon.  In  other  places 
are  pictures  of  Henry  Richard  and  some  of  the  well- 
known  preachers. 

When  the  curtain  rises,  John  Price  is  seated  to  the 
right  of  table  in  the  armchair;  Gwen,  to  the  left, 
in  the  chair  drawn  up  from  the  window. 

Price  is  a  rugged,  hard-visaged  man  about  sixty  years 
old.  He  has  the  collier's  usual  pallor,  and  there  is 
a  blue  mark,  caused  by  coal  dust,  prominent  on 
his  cheek-bone.  A  ragged  rim  of  gray-white  heard 
runs,  below  his  chin,  from  ear  to  ear.  He  is  dressed 
in  an  old  suit,  and  wears  a  muffler  over  a  shirt  of 
[4] 


CHANGE 

gray  flannel.  His  movements  are  slow  and  heavy, 
suggesting  the  power  of  endurance,  patient  hut 
somewhat  grim,  that  is  the  basis  of  his  nature. 
Alone  toith  his  wife  at  the  opening  of  the  play,  he 
shows,  as  in  his  attitude  to  Gwilym  throughout,  a 
certain  rough  tenderness,  which  is  not  seen  in  his 
relations  with  the  other  characters  in  the  play. 

GwEN,  his  wife,  is  of  a  different  type  —  a  gentle,  soft- 
voiced  woman,  whose  face  is  very  kind  and  a  little 
sad.  Even  in  her  smile  there  is  a  certain  touch  of 
vnstfulness,  suggesting  some  under-life  in  which 
memory  and  emotion  have  greatest  power.  She 
is  a  well-preserved  little  woman  of  sixty,  with  white 
hair.  Her  dress  is  simple  hut  very  neat.  When 
the  play  begins,  she  is  busily  mending  stockings, 
of  which  there  is  a  stock  in  a  basket  which  lies  on 
the  table  near  at  hand.  Price,  with  glasses  on  the 
end  of  his  nose  and  his  face  screwed  into  an  expres- 

.  sion  of  fierce  concentration,  is  addressing  an  envelope 
into  which  he  puts  a  letter.  He  closes  the  envelope 
with  a  hearty  bang. 

Price  [with  a  sigh  of  relief].    Well,  thank  good- 
ness, that's  done.     I've  just  written  to  Lizzie  Ann. 
You'll  have  her  back  here  on  Monday. 
[51 


CHANGE 

GwEN.  I  didn't  think,  when  I  let  her  go  down 
to  Llantrisant,  that  I  was  going  to  miss  her  like  this. 
Of  course  it  would  not  be  right  to  stop  her,  and 
them  expecting  a  baby  in  the  house  in  seven  or 
eight  weeks. 

Price.     Well,  anyhow,  back  she'll  be  on  Monday. 

GwEN.  It  isn't  so  much  the  extra  work  on  me 
I'm  thinking  of,  but  I  miss  her  about  the  place  here. 
She  hasn't  got  too  much  sense,  and  you  couldn't 
say  she's  such  a  great  deal  to  look  at  —  but,  some- 
how, I  miss  her  old  face  about  the  house. 

Price  [stretching  himself].  I'm  glad  I've  done 
those  two  letters.  It's  a  job  I  can't  abide  —  writing 
letters.  Comes  of  having  so  Uttle  schooling,  I  sup- 
pose. 

GwEN.  Have  you  finished  the  letter  to  Myfanw', 
John? 

Price  [taking  up  two  or  three  written  sheets].  Aay, 
my  gel.     Finished  at  last! 

GwEN  [dropping  the  stocking  to  her  lap].  And 
you've  put  in  that  Gwilym  is  to  go  in  five  weeks' 
time? 

Price  [ivith  a  little  sigh].  Aay,  my  gel,  I've  put 
it  in. 

GwEN.  I  don't  know  how  I'm  going  to  part  with 
[6] 


CHANGE 

him,  John.  I  don't  know  how  I'm  going  to  do  it. 
It's  an  awful  thing  to  part  like  this,  and  me  his 
mother!  I  can't  understand,  John,  why  God  puts 
people  together,  if  they've  got  to  part  after  all. 

Price.  Don't  you  get  low-hearted,  Gwen  fach. 
It's  all  for  the  best.  You  know  yourself  that  Doctor 
Willie  Jenkins  was  saying  only  the  other  day  that 
part  of  Australia  is  the  very  place  for  a  man  in 
consumption.  It's  lucky  for  us  Myfanw'  asked  us 
to  send  him  out,  and  her  knowing  that  he's  ill,  too. 

Gwen.  Well,  Myfanw'U  be  lucky  to  get  him. 
Who  could  she  get  better  to  keep  the  accounts  on 
the  farm,  and  him  writing  such  pretty  bits  of  poetry 
—  in  English  as  well  as  Welsh?  I  suppose  you  put 
in  the  letter  about  him  winning  the  prize  at  the 
Eisteddfod  in  Mountain  Ash? 

Price.    Of  course,  Gwen!    Of  course! 

Gwen.  And  only  five  weeks  now  before  he'll 
be  going!  I  don't  want  to  stand  in  his  light,  John. 
But,  oh,  it's  awful  soon  to  lose  him! 

Price  [with  rough  tenderness].  Think,  Gwen, 
think  what  it  means!  A  few  years,  and  then,  after 
all  the  praying  and  heart-breaking  we've  had  for 
him,  we'll  have  him  back  again  —  a  fine,  strong  man] 

Gwen.  Aay,  John,  I  know,  I  know!  That's 
[7] 


CHANGE 

what  I  am  trying  to  tell  myself  all  the  time.  That's 
all  I'm  asking  of  the  Almighty  —  to  let  me  live  to 
see  our  Gwilym  have  his  health  again.  There's 
Lewis  and  John  Henry  —  they  can  fight  their  way 
for  themselves;  but  for  our  Gwilym,  poor  boy,  it's 
diflFerent.  If  only  I  am  spared  for  that  —  to  see 
him  fine  and  strong  and  his  face  all  brown  with 
health  —  once,  only  just  once  before  I  die,  and 
then  I  think  I  will  go  singing  from  the  world! 

Price  [looking  over  the  letter  to  Myfanwy].  How 
d'you  spell  "endeavoring,"  Owen? 

GwEN  [very  thoughtful].  "Endeavoring?"  Let 
me  see  now!    Christian  Endeavor  Society.     E-n-d 

—  I  don't  know!  Better  for  you,  John  bach,  if 
you'd  written  in  Welsh! 

Price.  Oh,  indeed!  And  let  her  husband  think 
I  haven't  got  any  English,  and  him  and  me  not 
speaking  when  they  left  Aberpandy?  No  fear! 
[Looking  over  the  letter  again.]  Aay!  If  I'd  only 
had  a  bit  of  schooling!    The  chances  they  get  to-day 

—  board-school,  intermediate,  college!  [He  sighs 
regretfully.] 

GwEN  [after  a  pause].    I  wonder  what  he'll  look 
like! 
Pbice.    Look  like?    Who? 
[8] 


CHANGE 

GwEN.  Our  Gwilym  —  when  he  comes  back 
strong  and  well.  [In  a  musing  tone.]  It's  a  fine 
thing,  John,  for  a  woman  to  look  at  her  children 
and  see  them  all  strong  men,  so  strong  that  they 
could  crush  her  with  their  hands,  and  those  hands 
never  lifted  but  in  kindness.  Still  there's  some- 
thing, too  —  I  can't  explain  —  in  the  child  that's 
weak  and  suffering  keeps  him  very  near  your  heart. 
It's  like  having  one  who  didn't  grow  up  like  the 
rest,  one  that  you  must  be  always  taking  care  of. 

Price  [with  a  friendly  rehuke].  Gwen  fach,  you're 
always  thinking  of  the  boys! 

Gwen  [with  a  touch  of  surprise].  Well,  'ent  I 
their  mother?  D'you  know,  John,  I  can't  help 
thinking  Gwilym  doesn't  fancy  his  food  as  he  ought 
to  these  last  few  days.  That's  the  worst  of  this 
old  hot  weather!  I  was  saying  this  morning  at 
breakfast  if  I  could  only  get  a  chicken  I'd  make  a 
drop  of  broth  nice  and  tasty.  But  it  would  cost  a 
good  bit  would  a  chicken,  and  it's  getting  rather 
tight  on  us  now,  what  with  the  strike  and  saving 
up  enough  to  send  him  away 

Price  [bitterly].  Aay,  the  strike!  One  after  an- 
other—  strike,  strike,  strike!  Couldn't  you  get 
pne  on  old  account  from  Parry  the  Fish  Shop? 

[91 


CHANGE 

GwEN.  They  aren't  giving  old  account  to  any- 
body now.  They  lost  so  much  bad  debts  in  the 
last  strike. 

Price  [angrily].  Aay,  there  you  are !  [He  gets  up 
and  takes  a  few  steps  about  the  room.]  And  that's 
the  lot  our  Lewis  is  in  with!  And  a  respectable 
man  like  me,  that's  paid  his  way  all  his  life,  has  got 
to  sufiFer  for  a  gang  of  rodneys  willing  to  shout  with 
any  fool  that  lifts  his  finger.  [Looking  out  through 
the  vnndow.]  They're  down  there  now  in  the  Drill 
Hall  picking  their  new  candidate  for  Parliament  — 
and  a  fine  beauty  they  will  pick,  too ! 

GwEN  [who  has  been  pursuing  a  course  of  private 
reflection].  But  there's  one  thing,  John  —  I  dare- 
say I  could  get  a  bit  of  the  best  end  of  the  neck  and 
make  him  a  bit  of  something  tempting,  [John's 
anger  collapses.]  We  shall  have  to  watch  the  money 
pretty  close  these  next  few  weeks  in  order  to  get 
him  some  more  things,  I  wouldn't  like  Myfanw* 
to  see  him  without  everything  decent  and  respect- 
able —  three  of  each,  say,  and  p'raps  a  dozen  collars. 
[She  goes  on  with  her  mending.] 

Price  [somewhat  grimly].  Oh,  he'll  be  respectable 
enough  for  my  sister  Myfanw',  don't  you  fear!  I 
don't  see  that  she's  got  grounds  to  be  over  particular. 
[10] 


CHANGE 

GwEN.  You  mean,  John,  about  her  running 
away  with  the  barman? 

Price.    Aay,  I  do! 

GwEN.  Well,  she  married  him;  that's  some- 
thing, anyhow. 

Price.  She  was  a  disgrace  to  the  family  was 
our  Vanw'.  There  was  her  father  had  been  a  deacon 
all  those  years,  and  me  just  made  superintendent  of 
the  Sunday-school! 

GwEN.  Well,  John,  it  isn't  for  me  to  say  any- 
thing against  your  father,  and  him  in  his  grave  to- 
day. But  he  was  a  hard  man  —  too  hard  and  too 
cold  for  a  girl  like  Vanw'. 

Price  [in  an  injured  tone].  He  was  a  respectable, 
God-fearing  man  and  died  without  any  one  being 
able  to  say  he  owed  so  much  as  a  ha'penny.  And  he 
lived  in  his  own  house  for  twenty  years  —  freehold, 
mind  you,  too! 

GwEN.  All  the  same,  John,  I  don't  agree  with 
bringing  up  children  as  if  there  was  always  a  corpse 
in  the  house.  And  she  was  a  strange  girl  was  My- 
fanw'  —  all  life  and  fire  and  feeling.  And  the  way 
she  used  to  sing!  I  can't  help  thinking  our  John 
Henry  is  growing  up  to  look  the  living  image  of  his 
Aunt  Myfauw'. 

[Ill 


CHANGE 

Price.  There  is  a  bit  of  likeness,  it's  true.  And 
there's  no  denying  he's  got  a  grand  voice. 

GwEN.  And  there's  something  about  his  nose 
and  chin,  too.  Have  you  put  anything  about  him 
in  the  letter? 

Price.  Oh,  yes!  [Resuming  his  seat  and  read- 
ing.] "We  are  expecting  our  John  Henry  back  from 
college " 

GwEN.    University,  John,  University ! 

Price  [making  an  alteration].  "From  the  Uni- 
versity in  Cardiff  to-morrow  or  the  day  after.  I 
think  I  told  you  before  that  he  is  preparing  for  the 
ministry.  He  is  now  in  his  second  year,  and  next 
year  he  will  be  trying  for  the  B.  A. " 

Gwen  [to  herself  with  great  gusto].  The  Rev. 
John  Henry  Price,  B.  A. 

Price.  "  Perhaps  he  will  study  for  the  B.  D.  after- 
ward, but  that  isn't  quite  settled  yet.  Fortunately 
—  [Gwen  looks  up  at  the  long  word]  —  fortunately 
he  won  a  County  Exhibition,  so  that  we  don't  have 
to  keep  him  altogether." 

Gwen.  We  couldn't  have  done  it,  John,  not  with 
poor  Gwilym  bad  as  he  is.  It's  been  hard  enough, 
even  with  Sam  lodging  here. 

IPeice  [letting  the  Idler  drop  to  the  table].    That 


CHANGE 

was  a  grand  sermon  he  gave  us  last  Christmas, 
Gwen  —  a  grand  sermon !  There  aren't  many  not 
yet  out  of  college  would  venture  on  a  text  like  that 
—  "In  the  beginning  was  the  Word"  —  "Yn  y 
dechreuad  yr  oedd  y  Gair."  I  can't  understand 
him  sending  Isaac  Pugh's  William  Ewart  up  to 
Treherbert  the  other  Sunday.  Must  have  been  a 
great  disappointment  to  them  up  there. 

Gwen.  Working  hard  for  the  exams  he  is,  no 
doubt,  because  he  hasn't  written  home  these  last 
few  weeks  —  nothing  beyond  a  couple  of  picture 
postcards. 

Price.  I  can't  say  Isaac  Pugh  was  very  en- 
thusiastic about  the  sermon  last  Christmas,  though 
the  other  deacons  praised  it  beyond. 

Gwen.  Well,  you  see,  John,  Isaac  Pugh's  Wil- 
liam Ewart  is  studying  for  a  preacher,  too,  so  p'raps 
we  oughtn't  to  expect  it. 

Price.  No.  He  couldn't  stomach  it  was  our 
John  Henry  won  the  County  Exhibition,  and  not 
his  William  Ewart.  And  then  he's  so  set  on  giving 
the  call  to  Jones  of  Dowlais.  He's  getting  that 
polite,  is  Isaac  Pugh,  I  can  hardly  abide  talking  to 
him. 

Gwen.  I  suppose  you've  told  Myfanw'  about  the 
[13] 


CHANGE 

call  to  Horeb?  She'll  sure  to  be  interested,  and 
her  sitting  in  the  corner  by  the  harmonium  from  the 
time  she  was  baptised. 

Price  [taking  up  the  letter  again],  "You'll  be 
glad  to  hear  that,  after  being  without  a  regular 
pastor  since  Roberts  and  his  gang  started  the  split 
at  Bethania,  we're  going  to  give  a  call  in  Horeb  at 
last."  [He  pauses  a  moment  and  reflects.]  I  don't 
know,  Gwen,  if  you've  been  thinking  what  I've 
been  thinking  about  this  call. 

Gwen  [calmly].    Yes,  John,  I  have. 

Price  [vnth  enthusiasm].  Well,  it  would  be  a 
grand  thing  if  John  Henry  had  finished  college  and 
could  have  it,  wouldn't  it  now?  Of  course,  it's  only 
seven  pound  a  month,  but  he'd  be  able  to  work 
it  up. 

Gwen  [laying  down  her  mending].  And  he'd  be 
able  to  live  at  home  with  us,  and  I  could  look  after 
his  clothes.  What  we'd  have  to  do  would  be  to 
turn  Lewis's  bedroom  into  a  study,  and  Lewis  could 
have  Gwilym's  room  in  the  back.  Anyhow,  John 
Henry  will  be  here  till  October.  That's  one  com- 
fort; for  it's  a  strange  house  it  will  be  to  me  with 
Gwilym  going  across  the  water.  [She  sighs.]  Five 
weeks!  Only  five  more  weeks! 
[14] 


CHANGE 

Price.  Dewch  nawr,  Gwen!  Dewch!  It's  no 
use  looking  at  it  like  that. 

Gwen.  I  can't  help  it,  John  bach.  I'm  as  God 
made  me.  Somehow,  I  feel  afraid  —  afraid  of  the 
waiting  and  the  waiting,  thinking  of  him  day  and 
night,  and  him  away  in  foreign  parts.  I'll  be  seeing 
his  face  every  hour  of  the  day,  if  I  only  shut  my 
eyes,  and  his  voice  will  keep  on  coming  back  to  me 
as  I  go  about  the  house  and  out  in  the  garden  by 
his  bank  of  flowers.  [Saying  this,  she  gets  up  slowly 
and  puts  the  basket  of  stockings  on  the  dresser.  Then 
turning  a  little,  she  happens  to  look  through  the  window. 
She  starts,  and  begins  to  talk  more  briskly.]  Tan  i 
marw!  Here's  Gwilym  and  Sam  coming  up  from 
the  crossing,  and  I  haven't  so  much  as  laid  the  tea! 
[She  takes  the  white  cloth  from  the  dresser  drawer.] 
There's  talk  you  do,  John!  [Spreading  cloth  on 
table.]  I  don't  like  the  boys  to  come  home,  and 
things  not  ready.  A  woman  can't  expect  to  keep 
much  of  a  hold  on  her  children  if  she  doesn't  look 
after  their  comfort.  [She  bustles  into  the  back- 
kitchen,  and  a  rattle  of  crockery  is  heard.]  Pity  Lizzie 
Ann  isn't  here,  too!  She  may  be  dull;  I'm  always 
telling  her  she's  not  quite  sixteen  ounces  —  [bustling 
in  with  a  basket  containing  cups  and  saucers]  —  but 
[151 


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she's  handy,  and  it's  nice  to  see  her  old  face  about 
the  house.  And  I'll  get  that  drop  of  broth  ready  for 
his  supper.  [She  takes  vase  of  flowers  from  the  dresser 
and  puts  it  on  table.     Steps  are  heard  without.] 

Enter  Gwilym  and  Sam  Thatcher 

Sam  is  a  man  of  forty-two,  but  looks  older,  his 
hair  being  thin  and  grizzled,  his  face  tanned 
by  exposure  and  adorned  with  a  ragged  gray 
moustache.  He  has  lost  his  left  arm,  and 
the  empty  sleeve  is  fixed  into  the  pocket  of 
his  rough  blue  coat.  His  trousers,  strapped 
up  under  the  knee,  are  of  old  moleskin  with 
"cross"  pockets,  to  the  edge  of  which  he 
hooks  his  thumb  in  an  easy  attitude.  Under 
his  arm  he  carries  a  red  flag,  rolled  up.  His 
accent  proclaims  him  a  Cockney,  and  his 
general  air  of  suffering  superiority  to  Aber- 
pandy  and  all  its  works  indicates  a  haughty 
metropolitan  outlook. 

Gwilym  is  a  young  man  of  twenty-three  or 
twenty-four,  simply  and  neatly  dressed. 
His  thin,  pale  face  tells  of  disease.  His 
expression  suggests  thoughtfulness  and  a 
fund  of  sympathy,  purified  of  humbug  by 
[16] 


CHANGE 

quiet  humor.  He  speaks  in  reflective  man- 
ner, often  searching  the  listener's  face  as 
if  given  to  probing  through  the  surface  of 
things  for  the  causes  beneath.  In  his  bear- 
ing toward  others  there  is  the  natural  courtesy 
of  one  born  with  fine  instincts.  He  is 
treated  by  all  with  the  greatest  kindness, 
concern  for  his  welfare  being  the  common 
element  thai  keeps  the  household  together. 

Price  [with  great  sympathy].    Wei,  Gwilym,  ffor' 
ma'i  nawr,  machan-i? 

GwEN.     Where  you've  been  all  the  time,  boy 
bach?     And  the  weather  so  hot  like  this. 

Price.     I  was  telling  your  mother  after  dinner 
you  ought  to  lie  down  a  bit  in  the  afternoons. 
Gwilym.    That's  all  right,  'nhad! 
GwEN.     Sit  you  down,   'nghariad-i.     You  shall 
have  your  tea  in  a  minute. 

[GwEN  hurries  into  the  back-kitchen.  Gwilym 
moves  toward  the  chair  to  the  right  of  the 
dresser,  but  the  old  man,  murmuring,  "All 
right,  my  boy,  all  right,"  anticipates  him 
and  brings  up  the  chair,  placing  it  on  the 
left  of  his  own  chair,  which  remains  05 
[17] 


CHANGE ' 

before.     Sam,    having    placed  flag    on    the 
dresser,   takes   the   chair   on   which   Gwen 
formerly  sat.     This  is  his  usual  place  at 
table.       The    three    men    seat    themselves. 
GwiLYM  takes  vase  and  examines  the  blos- 
soms with  the  eye  of  a  good  judge.] 
Sam  [mopping  his  forehead].     It's  a  scorcher,  boss 
—  a  fair  scorcher;  that's  wot  it  is!     If  this  'ere 
weather  goes  on  on  top  of  orl  the  bloomin'  eloquence 
we're  'avin' —  there'll  be  trouble  'ere  in  Aberpandy. 
Mawk  my  words,  boss,  I'm  tellin'  yer  nah. 

[GwEN  comes  in  with  the  teapot  and  a  large 
plate  of  bread  and  butter  and  a  plate  of 
small   round   cakes.     She   takes    the    chair 
from  left  of  dresser  and  sits  on  Sam's  right. 
Lewis's     place  —  between     Gwilym     and 
Gwen  —  is  thus  left  vacant.     Gwen  pours 
out  the  tea.] 
Gwen.     Where  have  you  been,  Gwilym? 
Gwilym.     Well,  I  went  for  a  stroll  as  far  as  the 
Institute,  and  then  I  thought  I'd  wait  to  hear  whom 
they  had  selected  as  candidate. 

Price.     That  feller  Pinkerton,  I  suppose. 
Sam.     Got  it,  boss,  got  it  fust  taime! 

[Price  shakes  his  head  in  disgust.] 
[181 


CHANGE 

GwEN.     Bread  and  butter,  Sam? 
Sam.     Skooliki  da,  as  yer  say  dahn  'ere   missis. 
Skooliki  da! 

[KnocJe  at  door. 
GwEN.     Come  in. 

[Isaac  Pugh  appears  in  the  doorway  —  an 
old  man  in  a  shabby  suit.  Relations  be- 
tween him  and  Price  having  been  strained 
by  the  affairs  of  Horeb,  his  attitude  is  rather 
formal,  but,  at  the  same  time,  touched  with  a 
suggestion  of  meek  apology.] 
GwEN  [coldly  polite].  Ah!  Shwt  ych-chi,  Isaac 
Pugh?     Dewch  miwn. 

Pugh.  Shwt  ych-chi  'ma  heddy'?  [Hesitating 
in  doorway.]     Have  tea  you  are? 

GwEN.  Yes,  yes.  Come  in  you.  [Pointing  to 
the  chair  by  the  parlor  door.]  Will  you  take  a  cup 
with  us? 

Pugh  [advancing  across  the  room].  No,  indeed! 
No,  indeed !  Dim,  diolch.  Just  had  my  tea,  I  have. 
[He  sits  down.] 

GwEN.  There's  plenty  of  welcome,  mind  you 
now. 

Pugh.     Oh,  yes!     I  know,  I  know!     [To  Price.] 
I  suppose  you've  heard  the  news? 
[19] 


CHANGE 


Price,     Aay,  I've  heard. 

PuGH.  Well,  I  never  thought  I'd  live  to  see  a 
man  like  that  Pinkerton  being  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment for  the  valley  —  never ! 

GwiLYM.  They  say  he's  a  very  able  man,  Mr. 
Pugh. 

Price.  It's  men  like  him  are  the  curse  of  South 
Wales  to-day.  Who  is  he,  I'd  like  to  know,  that  he 
should  be  made  a  proper  "god"  oi?  I've  been  in 
the  valley  here  now  for  sixty  years.  I  remember 
Aberpandy  before  ever  the  Powell-Griffiths  sank 
the  first  pit,  and  the  sheep  of  Pandy  Farm  were 
grazing  quiet  where  the  Bryndu  Pit  is  now.  And 
I  never  so  much  as  heard  talk  of  this  fellow  Pinker- 
ton  till  two  or  three  years  ago. 

Pugh.  Well,  I  thought  it  was  understood,  long 
enough  ago,  too,  that  Evan  Davies  would  get  it 
when  George  Llewelyn  went. 

GwiLYM.  He'd  have  had  it  ten  years  ago,  Mr. 
Pugh.  He  might  have  had  it  five  years  ago.  But 
there's  a  change  come  over  the  valley. 

Price.    Aay,  Gwilym,  a  change,  a  sad  change, 

and  a  bad  one.     A  good,  steady  man  is  Evan  Davies 

—  a  tidy,  respectable  man,  and  been  a  deacon  for 

twenty  years  I  know  of.     I  remember  the  time  when 

[20] 


CHANGE 

we  went  down  the  valley  together  to  see  Gladstone. 
[He  looks  up  at  Gladstone's  portrait  on  the  wall.]     Aay 

—  yr  hen  Gladstone !  There  was  a  man  for  you ! 
And  look  at  this  feller  Pinkerton.  D'you  ever  hear 
of  him  so  much  as  darkening  the  door  of  a  chapel 

—  or  even  of  the  Church  for  a  matter  of  that?  Why 
can't  he  hold  his  old  meetings  on  some  other  day 
than  Sunday?  Isn't  it  hard  enough  to  keep  the 
congregation  together  without  him  and  his  meetings? 
"Six  days  shalt  thou  labor"  —  "Chwe  diwrnod  y 
gweithi"  —  isn't  it  written?  But,  of  course,  that 
don't  count  to-day. 

GwEN  [pouring  out  a  cup  of  tea].  Ah,  yes!  It 
isn't  like  it  was,  when  we'd  have  to  bring  the  benches 
out  of  the  vestry  on  a  Sunday  night.  [Giving  the 
cup  of  tea  to  her  husband  that  he  may  pass  it  on.] 
Take  you  this  in  your  hand  by  there  now,  Isaac 
Pugh. 

PuGH.     Well,  indeed  now,  I  didn't  want  it.     But 

since  you're  so  kind [He  takes  the  tea  and  stirs 

it  with  vigor.     Then  drinks  it.] 

GwEN  [holding  out  the  plate  of  bread  and  butter]. 
Sure  now  you  won't  have  a  bit  of  bread  and  butter? 
There's  a  nice  thin  piece  for  you. 

Pugh.  Well,  indeed,  Mrs.  Price  fach,  since 
[21] 


CHANGE 

you're  so  pressing [He  gets  up  and  takes  the 

piece  of  bread  and  butter.] 

GwEN.  I  suppose,  Isaac  Pugh,  like  us,  you're 
looking  forward  to  them  coming  home  from  college. 

Price  [lying  hospitably].  I  heard  your  William 
Ewart  did  very  well  up  in  Treherbert  the  other 
Sunday. 

Pugh.  I  had  a  letter  from  William  Ewart  this 
morning.  [He  hesitates  a  moment,  looking  furtively 
from  Price  to  Gwen.]  Have  you  heard  from  John 
Henry  lately.'' 

Gwen.  Only  a  few  picture  postcards  these  last 
few  weeks,  but  we  haven't  worried  him  about  it, 
and  him  studying  for  the  examination.  Awful 
things,  those  old  examinations !  I  hope  his  landlady 
is  looking  after  him;  though  I  must  say  she  seemed 
a  tidy  little  woman,  if  she  was  Church  of  England. 

Pugh  [more  or  less  to  himself].  I  wonder  he  hasn't 
written!  [Changing  the  subject.]  I  suppose  your 
Lewis  has  been  working  for  Pinkerton,  Price? 

Sam.  Workin'?  Workin'?  Not'arf!  'E'sbeen 
at  it  ever  since  the  other  feller  daied!  There's  one 
thing  abaht  Lewis,  any'ah  —  'e  can  tork.  I've 
'card  'em  in  Trafalgar  Square;  I've  'card  'em  in 
'Yde  Pawk;  I've  'card  'em  on  Tahr  rill  (Tower 
[22] 


CHANGE 

Hill).  But  I've  never  'eard  one  as  could  better 
'im.  Where  'e  gits  it  from,  I  don't  know.  Arter 
electin'  the  candidite  this  arternewn,  they  'ad  a 
public  meetin'  over  the  quest'n  of  the  blacklegs  they 
say  the  mawsters  are  torkin'  of  bringin'  in.  And 
yer  orter've  'eard  'im!  Sich  shahtin,'  sich  waivin'  of 
'is  awms,  and  'is  eyes  burnin'  laike  fire  in  'is  'ead, 
and  the  people  risin'  to  'im  laike  as  if  'e'd  mesmer- 
ised 'era.  Arter  it  was  over,  'e  was  clean  done  and 
shaikin'  laike  a  leaf.  'E  's  nothin'  but  a  bundle  of 
red-'ot  feelin's  is  Lewis.  But  'e's  a  smawt  chap,  if 
only  'e  could  keep  'is  'ead  a  bit  —  a  smawt  chap ! 

GwEN  [with  great  pleasure].  There  you  are, 
John!  Didn't  I  always  tell  you?  And  him  left 
school  when  he  was  only  fourteen,  too!  But  there 
was  no  keeping  him  back.  Off  he  went  to  the  night- 
school  every  winter.  And  the  books  he  was  always 
buying  —  him  only  a  collier,  too ! 

.  GwiLYM.  There's  one  thing  about  Lewis,  whether 
you  agree  with  him  or  not,  you  can't  help  feeling 
proud  of  him. 

GwEN.  That's  it,  Gwilym,  proud  of  him.  That's 
it.     You  can't  help  it 

Price.     Aay,  there's  a  fat  lot  to  be  proud  of. 
Fine  ideas  he's  got  hold  of  —  all  this  here  Socialism 
[23] 


CHANGE 

and  Agnosticism,  as  he  calls  it.    Why,  he's  worse 
than  the  Unitarians! 

GwEN  [shocked].  Taw  s6n,  John!  For  shame  on 
you!    Worse  than  the  Unitarians ! 

Sam.  Maind  yer,  I  don't  blime  'im.  Ow,  no! 
If  I  could  tork  laike  'im,  I'd  be  a  Socialist  meself  ter- 
morrer!  It's  only  'uman  niture.  And  if  I  was  a 
mawster,  I'd  do  wot  I  bloomin'  well  laiked  with  my 
pits.  That's  only  'uman  niture,  tew!  O'  course 
this  'ere  Socialism  is  orl  tommy-rot,  but  since  the 
men  will  'ave  it,  why  shouldn't  Lewis  give  it  'em  as 
well  as  anybody  else? 

GwEN  [innocently].  Of  course.  That's  what  I've 
been  thinking. 

Sam.  And  if  there's  any  pickin's  ter  be  got  aht  of 
it,  why  shouldn't  'e  git  'em  as  well  as  any  other 
feller? 

GwiLYM.    You  wicked  old  cynic,  Sam! 

Sam.  Nah,  me  son,  no  nimes!  Wot  I  sez  is  in 
this  'ere  world  yer've  got  ter  use  yer  common  sense; 
that's  orl.  Why  shouldn't  'e  git  inter  Parliament,  as 
well  as  the  rest  of  'em  —  four  'undred  a  year  nah, 
and  a  naice  soft  job 

Gwilym  [looking  over  Sam's  shoulder  to  the  win- 
dow].   H'sh!    Here  he  is! 

[24] 


CHANGE 

Enter  Lewis  with  a  parcel  under  his  arm.  He  is  be- 
tween twenty-eight  and  thirty  years  of  age.  His 
face  is  pale,  clean-shaven,  and  very  mobile.  His 
dark,  intense  eyes  suggest  great  nervous  energy,  but 
his  mouth  is  sensitive  rather  than  strong.  A  lock 
of  his  waving  black  hair  falls  carelessly  over  his 
forehead.  All  his  movements  are  rapid.  His 
demeanor  is  always  restless,  and  indicates  a  lack  of 
repose.  In  speaking,  he  gesticulates  with  graceful 
vigor.  His  voice  is  sweet  and  resonant,  and,  when 
it  rises  to  declamation,  there  is  in  it  a  faintly  plain- 
tive note. 

GwEN  [rising].  Well,  Lewis,  so  you've  come  at 
last?  I'll  make  you  a  cup  of  tea  nice  and  fresh. 
[Taking  teapot,  she  goes  toward  back-kitchen.] 

Lewis.  One  minute,  ma'am,  there's  this.  [He 
holds  out  the  parcel.] 

GwEN  [taking  parcel].  What  is  it,  Lewis?  [Open- 
ing parcel.]  Well,  tan  i  marw,  it's  a  chicken!  Oh, 
Lewis  bach,  and  you  so  busy  making  such  grand 
speeches!     How  did  you  remember,  boy  bach? 

Lewis.  Oh,  I  suppose  I  had  it  at  the  back  of  my 
head  since  you  mentioned  it  this  morning.  Old 
Parry  the  Fish  Shop  had  been  worrying  me  to  take 
[25] 


CHANGE 

a  present  since  I  taught  him  to  ride  a  bicycle;  so  I 
just  slipped  down  and  called  quits  on  the  chicken. 
[He  takes  chair  from  near  kitchen  door,  and  goes  to  his 
place  at  the  table.]  Don't  be  long,  ma'am,  I've  got  to 
go  to  a  committee. 

[GwEN  goes  into  back-kitchen,  lost  in  admira- 
tion of  the  bird.] 
Sam.    And  when  yer  come  ter  consider  the  saize 
of  Parry,  it  would  'a'  been  a  bit  more  appropriate  if 
'e'd  mide  it  a  turkey. 

[GwiLYM  sniggers.    Lewis  only  smiles  a  little, 
vaguely.] 
Lewis.     I  saw  you  at  the  meeting,  Gwilym. 
GwiLYM.     Did  you?     Your  speech  was  wonder- 
ful, Lewis. 

Lewis.     Wasn't  it  rather  hot  there  for  you? 
Gwilym.     Well,  it  was  a  bit;  but  I  didn't  want  to 
go  away  without  hearing  you. 

[The  two  brothers  interchange   smiles.     There 
is    evidently    a   great    bond    between    them. 
GwEN  comes  in  with  the  teapot,  a  cup  and 
saucer,  and  a  plate.     She  pours  out  a  cup 
of  tea  for  Lewis.] 
GwEN.     Bread  and  butter,  Lewis? 
Lewis.    No,  thanks,  nothing  to  eat. 
[261 


CHANGE 

GwEN  [coaxingly].  Dera  nawr,  dera!  One  of  my 
round  cakes,  then?  You  won't  turn  up  your  nose 
at  my  tishen  gron? 

Lewis  [taking  one  of  the  calces].  Thank  you,  ma'am. 
[He  goes  on  with  his  tea,  lost  in  thought.] 

GwEN.     More  tea,  Sam? 

Sam.  Well,  diolk  un  vawer,  missis.  Diolk  un 
vawer ! 

GwEN  [pouring  out  Sam's  tea].  Well,  we'll  have 
Lizzie  Ann  back  on  Monday.  That's  one  thing, 
however.  I  missed  her  by  me  in  chapel  last  Sunday, 
I  can't  tell  you,     [She  resumes  her  seat.] 

PuGH.  Talking  of  Horeb,  Price,  I  had  a  little 
chat  this  morning  with  Rees  the  Top  Shop  and 
Powell  the  Stockings 

Price.    Oh,  indeed! 

PuGH.  They  aren't  so  sure  now,  after  all,  it's 
Thomas  Llanstephan  ought  to  have  the  call. 

Price  [with  determination].  So  you're  trying  to 
talk  them  round,  are  you,  Isaac  Pugh? 

PuGH.  No,  no!  We  just  had  a  few  words  as  I 
was  passing 

Price.  I  tell  you  that  Jones  of  Dowlais  and  his 
New  Theology,  as  you  call  it,  aren't  going  to  put 
foot  in  Horeb. 

[27] 


CHANGE 

PuGH  [insinuatingly].  But,  Price  bach,  you  can't 
deny  he's  just  the  man  to  draw  the  young  people 

Price.  We've  got  other  business  in  Horeb, 
Isaac  Pugh,  than  to  draw  the  young  people.  We've 
got  to  preach  the  living  truth  to  men  that  have  got 
to  die;  and  if  the  young  people  won't  give  heed,  so 
much  the  worse  for  them  on  Judgment  Day  and  for 
those  who've  bUnded  them.     New  Theology,  indeed ! 

GwEN.  What's  it  all  about  —  this  New  Theology 
they're  talking  of? 

Price.  It's  making  black  white  and  white  black. 
It's  making  religion  neither  one  thing  nor  the  other. 
It's  treating  the  Devil  himself  as  if  he  was  one  of  the 
Twelve  Apostles 

GwEN  [dismissing  the  topic  from  her  mind\.  Well, 
if  it  goes  against  the  Bible  —  of  course,  there's  an 
end  to  it. 

Pugh.  Well,  indeed,  for  my  own  part,  I  prefer 
the  old-fashioned  preaching  and  a  bit  of  hwyl  here 
and  there. 

GwEN.  It's  very  pretty  —  a  little  bit  of  hwyl 
toward  the  end,  very  pretty! 

Pugh.  But  the  old  fashion  doesn't  draw  the 
young  people.     I  can't  stand  by  and  see  Horeb 

getting  emptier  and  emptier 

[28] 


CHANGE 

Price.  And  I  can't  stand  by  either  and  see  it 
go  into  the  hands  of  them  that's  making  a  mockery 
of  religion,  I  can't  do  it,  Isaac  Pugh.  I'd  just  as 
soon  see  it  go  to  the  Roman  CathoHcs.  Who  was  it 
built  Horeb  up  there  on  the  hillside  more  than  forty 
years  ago?  Men  like  your  father  and  my  father,  and 
old  Job  Williams,  and  Roderick  Rees  the  gaffer  — 
sober.  God-fearing  men  that  you  don't  see  here  in 
Aberpandy  to-day.  And  how  was  it  built,  Isaac 
Pugh?  Have  you  forgot  so  soon?  Every  day,  after 
coming  home  from  the  pit,  every  day  we  did  a 
little,  tired  as  we  were,  for  the  love  of  the  cause.  You 
were  there,  and  I  was  there  —  young  men  just  turned 
twenty  —  your  father,  my  father,  and  all  the  others. 
Stone  by  stone  we  built  it.  With  our  own  hands  we 
built  it,  for  the  glory  of  His  name.  I've  sat  there, 
Sunday  after  Sunday,  all  these  years.  All  that  I 
have  known  noble  and  good,  all  that  has  given  me 
power  to  go  on  from  day  to  day,  has  come  from  that 
old  chapel  up  there  on  the  hill.  And  d'you  think, 
Isaac  Pugh,  I'll  stand  by  and  see  it  lost  without 
making  a  struggle? 

[GwEN  sighs  with  a  hind  of  pleasant  melan- 
choly, as  is  her  way  when  the  talk  is  of 
hygone  days.     Lewis,  who  ha^  listened  to 
[29] 


CHANGE 

the  latter  part  of  his  father  s  speech,  smiles 
somewhat  contemptuously.    Gwilym  is  look- 
ing from  his  father  to  Lewis,  watching  them 
keenly.     Sam  is  staring  at  the  ceiling,  hoping 
that  some  one  will  change  the  subject.] 
PuGH.     Aay,  that's  all  very  well,  Price.     Good 
days  they  were,  I  don't  deny ;  and  us  able  to  pay  the 
preacher  so  much  as  eleven  pound  a  month.     But 
now,  mun,   it's   as    much    as  we  can  do  to  raise 
seven. 

Price.  There's  things  that  matter  more  than 
money. 

PuGH.  Not  if  you're  treasurer  of  the  chapel,  as 
you'd  find  out  in  my  place,  Price.  For  my  own  part, 
I  hope  Jones  of  Dowlais  will  get  it,  however. 

Price.  There's  only  one  theology  I  know,  and 
Jones  of  Dowlais  can't  alter  it,  nor  all  the  other 
Joneses  either. 

PuGH.     It's  the  young  people 

^AM  [cheerfully].  Aw,  well!  Boys  will  be  boys, 
yer  know.     Boys  will  be  boys! 

PuGH  [mysteriously].  Aay,  I've  always  said  you 
never  know  how  they'll  turn  out.  [Lewis  looks  at 
him  inquiringly.]  No,  no!  I  don't  mean  you, 
Lewis,  I  don't  mean  you. 

[30] 


CHANGE 

Price.     Well,  who  d'you  mean,  then? 

PuGH  [changing  the  topic  again].  So  you  got 
Pinkerton  nominated  between  you  then,  Lewis? 

Lewis.  Yes,  I  don't  think  anybody  would  have  a 
chance  against  him.  There  were  a  few  who  sup- 
ported Evan  Davies,  but  I  knew  we'd  get  a  major- 
ity for  Pinkerton. 

PuGH.  He's  a  proper  firebrand,  I  think.  I 
can't  abide  a  man  like  that.  None  of  the  old  stock 
here  wanted  him. 

Price  [bitterly].  That  don't  count  in  Aberpandy 
now,  Pugh.  If  you  want  advice  to-day,  you've  got 
to  listen  to  the  boys.  If  you  want  to  be  heard  at  all, 
you  must  talk  of  nothing  but  strikes  and  the  rights 
of  the  workingman.  You  must  stir  up  strife  all 
over  the  place 

Lewis  [looking  straight  into  his  father  s  face]. 
Yes,  you  must  stir  up  strife  —  all  over  the  place.  As 
long  as  Labor  and  Capital  exist  as  they  do  now,  you 
must  stir  up  strife  —  all  over  the  place. 

Pugh.  There  you  are,  Price.  That's  the  kind  of 
talk  you've  got  to  listen  to  now.  That's  the  kind  of 
thing  that  goes  down  with  them  to-day. 

Price  [seriously].  Now  listen  to  me,  Lewis.  If 
you  and  the  like  of  you  go  on  talking  like  this,  and 
[31] 


CHANGE 

the  temper  of  the  men  rising  every  day,  sooner  or 
later  there'll  be  hell  upon  earth  here  in  Aberpandy. 

Lewis.  There's  never  been  anything  but  hell 
upon  earth  here  in  Aberpandy;  but  it  shan't  be  hell 
forever. 

PuGH.  What's  the  matter  with  Aberpandy, 
Lewis?  Your  father  and  me  have  been  living  here 
now  this  sixty  years  —  and  it's  good  enough  for  us. 

Lewis.  It  may  be,  but  it  isn't  good  enough  for 
me  and  the  men  I  stand  for.  Here  you  are,  you  and 
my  father,  squabbling  as  to  which  of  your  candi- 
dates is  to  be  given  this  job  in  Horeb  —  at  star- 
vation wages. 

PuGH  [indignantly].  Squabbling?  D'you  say 
squabbling?     I'm  sure 

Lewis.  Aay,  squabbling!  D'you  think  we  are 
going  to  lose  our  sleep  over  Jones  of  Dowlais  or 
Thomas  Llanstephan?  There's  another  kind  of 
fight  going  on  here,  if  you  only  knew  it.  Labor  and 
Capital  are  at  grips,  always,  always!  Whether 
we're  working  or  whether  we're  striking,  we're 
fighting  that  battle,  day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour. 
And  you're  not  in  the  fighting  line.  You're  prison- 
ers of  the  past.    It's  tied  your  hands  and  it's  blinded 

your  eyes 

[S2] 


CHANGE 

PuGH.  Fine  words,  my  boy;  but  wait  you  a 
bit 

Lewis  [his  voice  rising  ds  he  begins  to  be  carried 
away  by  the  force  of  his  own  words\.  The  time  for 
waiting  is  done  with;  it's  time  for  doing  now.  All 
along  you've  been  waiting  and  compromising.  You 
called  yourselves  "  Liberal-Labor."  Even  your  very 
name  was  compromise  —  and  that's  why  you've 
never,  never  done  anything  at  all. 

Price.  I've  done  my  duty  all  my  life,  and  I've 
paid  my  way  to  the  last  ha'penny. 

Lewis.  Yes,  you  have,  I  know.  And  what's  the 
end  of  it  all?  You  can  scarcely  sleep  at  night  —  now 
in  your  old  age  —  because  you've  got  to  take  a  few 
shillings  out  of  the  Post  Office  in  the  time  of  need. 
You've  had  a  long,  gray  life,  and  you  lived  it  the 
best  you  knew.  You  haven't  been  a  waster  or  a 
drunkard;  but  tell  me  —  tell  me  honestly  —  are  you 
so  much  better  off  than  the  man  who  is?  Why, 
if  this  is  all  that's  possible  for  men,  if  this  is  the  be- 
ginning and  the  end,  then  I  say  that  the  sooner  they 
drink  themselves  to  death  the  better  it  will  be  for 
them. 

PuGH.    You  hear  that.   Price?    You  hear  the 
kind  of  talk  that's  going  on? 
[33] 


CHANGE 

Price  [getting  up  and  raising  his  voice].  I  won't 
have  this  ungodliness  in  my  house.  D'you  hear 
that?  [Lewis  rises,  facing  his  father.  His  lips  are 
set,  his  eyes  ablaze.  He  shows  signs  of  intense  emo- 
tional strain.]  If  that's  part  of  the  New  Gospel 
you  talk  about 

Lewis.  Aay,  that's  part  of  it!  There  are  terms 
on  which  it's  cowardly  to  live,  and  those  are  the  terms 
on  which  you  and  the  like  of  you  are  Uving.  You 
may  be  satisfied  with  slavery;  but  we  are  not 

PuGH.     Slavery? 

Lewis.  Aay,  slavery!  And  there  on  Bryndu 
stands  the  pit  that  is  your  master.  From  the  cradle 
to  the  grave  it's  been  holding  you  in  the  hollow  of 
its  hand.  The  food  you  eat,  the  clothes  you  wear, 
the  bed  you  lie  in  —  it's  master  of  them  all,  aay, 
almost  of  the  very  souls  within  you!  When  it  gives, 
it  gives  with  grudging,  and,  when  it  gives  no  more, 
sooner  or  later  you've  got  to  tighten  your  belt  and 
see  the  sorrow  writing  deep  on  the  faces  of  the 
women.  But  it's  not  going  on  forever,  I  tell  you; 
and  aU  the  cowardice  and  cant  won't  serve  to 
save  it. 

Price.     No.     We  must  leave  it  to  loafers  and 
unbelievers  to  put  things  right  to-day. 
[34] 


CHANGE 

Lewis.  Don't  make  a  mistake.  Men  were 
never  more  earnest  than  they  are  now.  There's 
somethmg  stirring  in  the  dark.  All  over  the  wide 
earth  it's  stirring,  and  there's  nothing  can  keep  it 
still.  Call  it  Socialism,  Syndicalism,  unrest,  or 
revolution.  Call  it  what  you  like.  But  it's  the 
worker  coming  to  his  own  at  last  through  suffering 
and  through  struggle.  And  here  in  Aberpandy 
we're  f.acing  our  share  of  the  battle  —  we,  the  young 
men  you  make  light  of.  And  we're  facing  it  not  only 
for  ourselves,  but  for  the  men  and  women  to  come 
after,  who'll  know  the  things  we  didn't  know  and 
hardly  dared  to  dream.  [Taking  his  cap  from  dresser 
and  going  toward  the  door.]  But  you're  not  with  us. 
You're  looking  back;  we're  looking  forward.  And 
because  you're  looking  back,  you  can't  understand 
what's  going  on  about  you  day  by  day. 

[He  goes  out.  Pugh  and  Price  exchange  fur- 
tive glances.  Gwen  follows  Lewis's  de- 
parture, Tnoving  a  few  steps  toward  the  win- 
dow. Her  face  shows  bewilderment,  through 
which  shines  maternal  pride.  Gwilym 
watches  his  father  with  an  expression  touched 
with  pity.  Sam  is  smoking  hard,  with  an 
appearance  of  critical  appreciation.] 
[35] 


CHANGE 

Sam.  Well,  I'm  a  tariff  reformer,  meself;  but  I 
don't  maind  allowin'  'e  can  tork.  I  enjoy  listenin' 
to  'im,  some'ah.  O'  course,  it's  only  'is  enthewsi- 
asm  —  'is  Celtic  enthewsiasm,  I  suppose  yer'd 
call  it. 

GwEN.  There's  a  man  he'd  be  in  the  pulpit!  I 
always  think  he's  just  the  man  for  the  pulpit  when  I 
hear  him  going  on  like  that. 

PuGH.  I  don't  deny  he's  got  power,  Mrs.  Price; 
but  he's  a  strange  chap  —  a  strange  chap.  I  can't 
understand  him  being  his  father's  child ! 

GwiLYM.     He's  the  child  of  his  times,  Mr.  Pugh. 

GwEN.  Well,  you  know,  Isaac  Pugh,  if  your 
children  happen  to  be  born  clever,  'tisn't  the  same 
as  if  they  were  born  only  middling 

Pugh  [nettled].  It  seems  to  me,  however,  it  would 
be  better  for  them  to  be  born  a  bit  less  clever  and  a 
bit  more  respectful. 

Sam  [judicially].  They  say  it's  a  waise  chaild 
that  knows  it's  own  fawther;  but  it's  a  waiser  fawther 
that  can  arrainge  to  'ave  'is  chaild  accordin'  to  'is 
laikin'! 

Pugh.  What  I  say  is  a  man  ought  to  be  able  to 
control  his  own  sons 

Price.  Sons.'*  Sons?  I  don't  deny  I  may  have 
[36] 


CHANGE 

got  grounds  of  complaint  about  Lewis.  If  Gwilym 
here  wasn't  a  bit  fond  of  him,  he'd  have  been  out  of 
the  house  long  ago 

GwEN  [shocked],    John! 

Price  [to  Pugh,  not  heeding  her].  But  there's 
John  Henry  now  so  good  a  boy  as  any  father  could 
wish 

GwEN.  And  not  only  good,  Isaac  Pugh,  but 
clever. 

Pugh  [loith  a  contemptuous  snort].  Bit  too  clever, 
I'm  thinking. 

GwEN  [very  sweetly].  Come  now,  Isaac  Pugh. 
Wara  teg  for  John  Henry.  You  mustn't  be  down 
on  him  just  because  he  happened  to  win 

Pugh.  Well,  I'll  say  this  for  Lewis,  anyhow, 
whatever  he's  done,  it's  always  before  your  face. 

[There  is  some  sensation  after  this.     All  rise 
except  Sam.] 

Price  [taking  a  step  toward  Pugh].  What  d'you 
mean,  Isaac  Pugh? 

GwEN.  What's  our  John  Henry  done?  Quick! 
Tell  me!    He's  gone  and  got  married? 

Pugh.  No,  Mrs.  Price.  It's  not  that.  [To 
Price.]  P'raps  I  may  as  well  tell  you  now. 

Price.    Well? 

[37  J 


CHANGE 

PuGH.    You'd  have  to  hear  sooner  or  later 

Price.    Out  with  it,  mun ! 

PuGH.  I  had  a  letter  from  our  William  Ewart 
this  morning 

Price.    Well? 

PuGH.  John  Henry's  going  to  throw  up  the  min- 
istry   

GwEN.    What? 

Price.     It's  a  lie,  Isaac  Pugh! 

PuGH  [putting  his  hand  into  his  pocket].  I've  got 
the  letter  here.     Look  at  it,  you! 

Price  [in  a  low,  broken  voice].  John  Henry,  too! 
Duw  mawr,  John  Henry,  too! 

Curtain 


[38] 


Acrn 


ACT  II 

Time:  Evening  of  the  following  Sunday. 

Scene:   The  same. 

The  table  is  now  closer  to  the  fireplace.  The  sweet' 
peas  in  the  vase  on  the  dresser  have  been  changed. 
Price's  week-day  coat  and  a  straw  hat  with  Cardiff 
College  band  are  behind  door  on  left.  Sam,  inhis 
best  clothes,  is  sitting  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the 
dresser,  his  face  hidden  behind  the  "News  of  the 
World."  GwiLYM,  reading  a  copy  of  "  Cymru,"  is 
seated  in  the  armchair,  which  is  now  on  the  left 
side  of  the  table.  Lewis  is  standing  near  the  win- 
dow, looking  out.  John  Henry  is  seated  in  the 
chair  by  the  parlor  door.  He  is  a  young  man  of 
twenty-one,  in  appearance  something  like  his 
brother  Lewis.  Just  now  he  is  lost  in  thought. 
There  is  a  short  spell  of  silence;  then  Gwilym,  un- 
consciously, begins  to  hum  the  old  Welsh  hymn, 
"Bydd  myrdd  o  ryfeddodau."  After  a  bar  or  two, 
Lewis  and  John  Henry  take  it  up  in  harmony. 
[41] 


CHANGE 

Sam  lowers  the  newspaper  and  looks  at  the  brothers 
with  perplexity  and  disgust. 

Sam.  Cheerful,  ain't  it?  Cawn't  yer  give  us 
somethin'  a  bit  more  laively?  Laife  ain't  orl  a 
fun'ril,  long  drawn  aht. 

Lewis.  Strange  what  a  hold  they  get  on  a  man  — 
those  old  hymns.     [Sits  down  on  chair  by  tirindow.] 

John  Henry.  Yes,  very  strange!  They  seem  to 
get  down  into  your  blood  somehow. 

Sam.  Not  maine,  me  boy.  No  fear!  Gimme  a 
seat  in  a  music  'all,  a  pot  o'  beer,  a  paipe  of  baccy, 
and  I'm  'appy  —  puffickly  'appy.  [Looking  at  the 
clock.]  I  suppose  the  boss  and  the  missis  will  be 
'ome  from  chapel  before  long,  nah.     I'd  better  'op  it. 

GwiLYM.  They  won't  be  here  for  some  time  yet. 
It's  the  first  Sunday  in  the  month.  And  there'll  be 
a  lot  of  talk  about  the  Church  Meeting  next  week. 
They're  going  to  choose  the  pastor  then. 

Lewis.  Aay.  There'll  be  father  pulling  the 
strings  for  Thomas  Llanstephan,  and  Isaac  Pugh 
pulling  the  strings  for  Jones  of  Dowlais,  so  that  one 
of  them  can  get  seven  pound  a  month  for  preaching 
claptrap  to  a  lot  of  old  women.     Ach! 

Sam,  Steady  nah,  Lewis!  Steady,  me  boy!  \ 
[42], 


CHANGE 

don't  'old  with  goin'  agen  religion.  I've  bin  a 
sailor  in  me  taime;  and  when  yer've  spent  a  few 
years  aht  on  the  maighty  deep  —  as  the  song  sez  — 
yer  gits  the  idea  there  may  be  more  in  religion  than 
yer  think.  So  there's  no  'awm  in  bein'  perlite  ter 
it,  any 'ah. 

GwiLYM.  After  all,  Lewis,  you  must  make  allow- 
ance for  their  view  of  things,  or  how  can  you  expect 
them  to  make  allowance  for  yours? 

Lewis.  I  tell  you  it  makes  me  wild  to  see  them 
worrying  over  things  that  don't  matter  twopence. 

GwiLYM.  It's  a  low  price,  Lewis,  for  honest  con- 
victions. 

Lewis  [getting  wp  with  his  usual  restlessness]. 
Jones  of  Dowlais  or  Thomas  Llanstephan  —  what 
does  it  matter?  Think  of  the  great  problems  round 
us  —  staring  at  us  —  crying  at  us  —  everywhere ! 
Look  at  this  place  we're  living  in  —  mean  streets, 
mean  homes,  mean  chapels,  mean  public-houses! 
On  and  on  the  people  go,  driven  by  some  blind  im- 
pulse within  them,  breeding  children  who  will  grow 
up  to  go  through  the  same  old  senseless  round  — 
unless  we  change  it.    [Grimly.]    Unless  we  change  it ! 

Sam.  Where  yer  gits  the  words  from  beats  me 
'oiler  —  simply  'oiler ! 

[43] 


CHANGE 

John  Henry.  Oh,  Lewis,  if  you  only  knew  how  I 
envy  you  your  enthusiasm!  I'm  so  sick  of  fighting 
things.     Don't  you  ever  get  tired  of  it  all? 

Lewis.  Get  tired?  Yes,  I  do.  Often  and  often. 
But  then  I  remember  what  it  is  we're  fighting  for, 
and  I  see  them  in  my  mind,  those  men  and  women  of 
the  future.  There  are  great  things  going  to  happen, 
things  that  I  want  to  have  a  hand  in  shaping.  And 
when  I  think  of  all  this,  I'm  not  tired  any  longer. 

Sam.  Nah  wot  I  sez,  Lewis,  is,  it's  no  use  lettin' 
yer  feelin's  git  the  better  of  yer  judgment  and  spoilin' 
yer  chawnces.  It  don't  do  yer  no  good  in  the  long 
run  ter  go  settin'  yerself  up  agen  religion  as  yer  do. 
It's  got  a  strong  'old  dahn  'ere,  and  yer  mustn't 
fergit  it.  Nah  taike  my  tip  —  Christian  Socialism 
is  the  tack  yer  orter  go  on;  it  is,  strite! 

GwiLYM  [smiling,  but  earnest].  Now  then,  devil's 
advocate!  He's  much  better  as  he  is.  As  I've  told 
you  before,  you're  the  most  cynical  old 

Sam.  Nah,  Gwilym,  no  nimes,  no  'awd  nimes! 
I'm  older  than  orl  of  yer,  and  I'm  advaisin'  of  yer  for 
yer  own  good.  When  yer  gits  on  in  years  a  bit,  yer 
gits  ter  see  that  laife  is  a  thing  o'  give  and  taike  — 
and  the  waiser  yer  are,  the  less  yer  gives  and  the 
more  yer  taikes.  That's  abaht  wot  it  comes  tew. 
[44] 


CHANGE 
GWILYM.      Rot ! 

John  Henry.  That's  all  very  well;  but  a  man's 
got  his  conscience  to  consider.  There  are  times 
when  it's  right  to  make  a  stand. 

Sam.  Sometaimes  it  may  be  raite,  and  agen,  some- 
taimes  it  may  be  wrong;  but  it's  always  very  dis- 
turbin'. 

John  Henry.  I  knew  that.  But  I  did  right. 
Don't  you  think  so,  Lewis? 

Lewis.    Quite  right.     It  was  the  only  thing  to  do. 

John  Henry.  Father's  scarcely  looked  at  me 
since  I've  been  home.  Isaac  Pugh  passed  me  in  the 
street  without  stopping.     I'm  not  a  criminal. 

Lewis.  No.  But  they'll  be  down  on  you  as  if 
you'd  committed  murder.  [Bitterly.]  I  know  what 
they're  like  —  the  old  brigade. 

John  Henry.    You  don't  blame  me,  Gwilym? 

GwiLYM.  No,  I  don't  blame  you.  I'm  sorry; 
that's  all.  You've  made  up  your  mind,  John 
Henry? 

John  Henry.  Quite.  I  don't  care  what  happens, 
but  I  won't  go  back  to  it. 

Lewis.     What  will  you  do  now? 

John  Henry.     I  don't  know.    Teach,  I  suppose. 
I'm  not  sure  I  like  the  idea  of  it. 
[45] 


CHANGE 

Lewis.  I  don't  think  he'll  let  you  go  back  to 
finish  your  degree. 

John  Henry.  If  he  doesn't  suggest  it,  I  shan't 
ask  him. 

Sam.  Yer  don't  think,  John  'Enry,  yer  maite  in 
taime  bring  yerself  ter  toe  the  laine  agen,  so  ter 
speak? 

John  Henry.  Never!  I'm  out  of  it  now.  You 
don't  know  what  misery  it  was  —  those  heavy  days 
and  those  endless  nights! 

GwiLYM.  Of  course,  you  understand  it's  bound  to 
be  a  terrible  blow  for  father. 

John  Henry.  Yes,  I  know.  That's  why  I  hung 
on  through  this  second  session.  I  never  dreamt  a 
man's  mind  could  change  like  this  in  a  couple  of  years. 

Sam  [with  kind  curiosity].  Wot  was  it  put  yer  orf 
it,  if  I  may  awsk  the  question? 

John  Henry  [with  a  gesture  of  helplessness].  Oh! 
I  can't  explain.  It  all  just  slipped  away;  that's  all. 
I  suppose  I  made  up  my  mind  too  soon.  It  seemed 
so  easy  up  here  in  Aberpandy  after  the  Revival. 

Sam.    Aw,  yus!    TheDeewigiad! 

John  Henry.  But  down  there  in  Cardiflf  it  waf. 
difiFerent. 

GwiLYM.    How? 

[46] 


CHANGE 

John  Henry.  I  hadn't  to  work  very  hard,  be- 
cause I  had  taken  Higher  Honors.  So  I  read  all 
kinds  of  things. 

Sam.  Aw,  yus!  There  yer  are,  Lewis.  Wot  did 
I  tell  yer.'*     Give  me  the  newspiper. 

John  Henry.  I  went  about  —  to  concerts  and 
plays. 

Sam.  Did  yer  ever  see  George  Robey ,  John  'Enry  ? 
I  seen  'im  many  a  taime  before  I  got  stuck  in  this 
Gawd-fersaiken  'ole.  'E  wasn't  'arf  a  corf -drop  was 
George!  Yer  orter  'ave  seen  'im  as  the  pre'istoric 
man.     Laugh?    That  ain't  no  word  for  it ! 

John  Henry.  There  never  was  any  laughter  in 
this  house,  not  even  when  we  were  children. 

Lewis.  There's  little  room  for  laughter  in  the 
homes  of  the  poor. 

John  Henry  [to  Gwilym].  Sometimes  I  almost 
feel  sorry  we  didn't  stick  to  Roman  Catholicism,  all  of 
us.     I've  met  five  or  six  fellows  who  think  that,  too. 

Gwilym  [looking  at  him  more  closely].    Oh! 

John  Henry.  Say  what  you  like,  it's  got  a 
place  for  joy  and  beauty 

Sam.  'Arf  a  mow!  Yer've  never  bin  ter  Spine 
[Spain],  'ave  yer? 

John  Henry  [still  to  Gwilym].  It  isn't  that  I 
[47] 


CHANGE 

didn't  try  to  keep  to  the  old  faith.     You  mustn't 
think  I  didn't  try,  Gwilym. 

GwiLYM.     I  know  that. 

John  Henry.  But,  somehow,  the  harder  I 
tried  to  grasp  it,  the  more  it  crumbled  away. 

Lewis.  You're  not  the  only  one  who's  been 
through  that,  John  Henry. 

John  Henry.  It's  horrible,  Gwilym  —  all 
through  the  day  as  you  try  to  work,  and  then  at 
night  as  you  tramp  along  under  the  stars  —  always 
that  one  same  question,  always,  always!  But  no 
answer  ever  comes. 

Sam.  Well,  it  isn't  for  me  ter  say  nothin*.  Wot 
yer  torkin'  abaht  nah  is  a  bit  above  me.  But  wot 
I've  always  said  is.  Give  me  comfort.  And  it  ain't 
a  bad  motter,  either. 

Gwilym.  Didn't  you  ask  advice  from  older  men, 
John  Henry? 

John  Henry.  At  first  I  was  afraid  to  say  any- 
thing about  it,  but  I  found  out  afterwards  there  were 
many  others  like  me.  The  older  men  didn't  imder- 
stand,  as  far  as  I  could  see.  Some  of  them  men- 
tioned Darwin,  as  if  it  was  all  his  fault.  And  then 
sometimes  I  had  to  preach.  D'you  know,  Gwilym, 
I  got  to  hate  the  very  thought  of  Sunday. 
[48] 


CHANGE 

GwiLYM.     You  kept  up  your  publications,  then? 

John  Henry.  For  a  time.  It  was  only  trying  to 
convince  myself.  Then  I  began  to  send  other  stu- 
dents in  my  place.  But  I  knew  I  couldn't  go  on 
with  it.  Sooner  or  later,  Gwilym,  it  had  to  come. 
I  simply  couldn't  go  on. 

Gwilym.     It's  a  hard  case  at  best  —  a  hard  case! 

John  Henry.  But  what  I  can't  understand  is 
the  way  so  many  take  it.  After  all,  I  couldn't  help 
myself,  and  it's  I  who've  suffered  most.  Yet  they 
treat  me  as  if  I'd  done  some  dreadful  thing.  Look 
at  father  and  Isaac  Pugh. 

Lewis.  It's  the  way  of  the  old  brigade,  John 
Henry.  They  think  they've  got  the  truth,  and  the 
whole  truth.     They  hate  any  new  idea 

Gwilym.  Yes;  but,  Lewis,  they  can't  help  it. 
You  sympathize  with  John  Henry  because  you 
understand.  You  know  it's  only  change.  The  old 
brigade,  as  you  call  them  —  they  think  it's  desertion. 
Remember,  the  things  you're  leaving  are  a  part  of 
their  very  lives.     Don't  you  see? 

Lewis.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  see  —  a  lot  of  cantan- 
kerous old  devils,  too  out-of-date  to  do  anything 
themselves,  and  too  jealous  to  let  alone  those  who 
can. 

[49] 


CHANGE 

GwiLYM  [reflectively].  I  see  something  quite  dif- 
ferent —  something  rather  sad. 

Lewis.     What  is  it? 

GwiLYM.  It's  men  and  women  growing  old  in  a 
world  that  doesn't  understand  them,  and  that  they 
themselves  don't  understand.  Sometimes  I  think 
that  because  I'm  an  invalid,  and  perhaps,  too,  because 
I'm  a  bit  of  a  poet  —  I  see  things  in  the  old  brigade 
that  you've  never  realized.  Half  my  time  I've  been 
on  my  back,  outside  life  altogether,  thinking  and 
looking  on.     It's  all  very  well  for  you,  Lewis 

Lewis  [with  protest].    All  very  well  for  me? 

GwiLYM.  Yes.  It's  quite  all  right  for  you. 
You're  on  the  winning  side.  You've  got  the  great 
ally 

Lewis.     What  ally? 

GwiLYM.  Time;  and  in  your  heart  you  know  it. 
You've  only  got  to  wait,  and  you'll  win.  But  the  old 
brigade  can  only  see  that  they're  losing,  and  they're 
bewildered,  pressed  on  all  sides  by  things  that  they 
don't  understand.  If  they  argue  with  you,  they  get 
beaten.  Why  ?  Because  they've  been  careful  to  give 
you  the  education  they  never  had  themselves 

John  Henry.    But  they  won't  understand. 

GwiLYM.  Because,  of  course,  they  can't  imder- 
[50] 


CHANGE 

stand.     Take  father's  case  now.      Did  ever  any  man 
work  harder?     [To  Lewis.]     Tell  me. 

Lewis.    No,  I  suppose  not. 

GwiLYM.  Could  any  man  ever  have  denied 
himself  more  than  he  has  done?  [To  John  Henry.] 
Come,  John  Henry,  answer. 

John  Henry.  No.  I  must  confess.  Nobody 
could  have. 

GwiLYM.  You  said  just  now  there'd  never  been 
any  laughter  in  this  house.  I'll  tell  you  why. 
There's  been  one  long,  slow  self-sacrifice;  and  the 
world  needs  sacrifice  as  much  as  it  needs  laughter. 
Don't  be  hard  on  him,  boys,  because  he  doesn't 
look  at  things  with  your  eyes.  He  can't  help  him- 
self any  more  than  you.  He  belongs  to  the  old 
valley.  At  heart  he's  of  the  agricultural  class  — 
slow,  stolid,  and  conservative.  You,  Lewis,  you're 
of  a  different  kind  altogether  —  you've  grown  up  in 
modern  industry,  with  no  roots  in  the  soil.  That's 
why  you're  a  rebel.  That's  why  the  men  of  your 
time  are  rebels,  too. 

[Knock  at  door. 

Lewis.     Come  in. 

[The  door  opens.    Dai  Matthews  and  TwM 
Powell  are  seen  in  the  doorway.] 
[51] 


CHANGE 

Dai.    Busy,  Lewis? 

Lewis.  No.  Only  chatting.  Any  news?  Come 
in. 

EnterJyAiand  Twm.  DAi'MjLTTUEWsisayoung  man, 
plainly  dressed.  Twm  Powell  is  a  colliery  in  his 
best  clothes.    He  wears  a  red  necktie. 

Dai.  We  wanted  to  see  you  on  a  bit  of  business, 
Lewis. 

Lewis.     Oh!     Anything  important?    [He  gets  up.] 

TwM.  Aay,  Lewis,  most  important.  Some  more 
of  their  damned  capitaHst  tricks;  that's  what's  the 
matter. 

GwiLYM.  Well,  if  you've  got  business,  we  won't 
interrupt  you.  [He  gets  up,  leaving  "  Cymru"  on  the 
tahle.]  Come  and  have  a  look  at  my  new  sweet- 
peas,  John  Henry.  I  meant  to  cut  a  few  of  those 
King  Edward  the  Sevenths. 

John  Henky  [rising] .    Right  you  are ! 

Dai.  How  are  they  getting  on  in  this  hot  weather, 
Gwilym?  I  see  old  Roberts  has  got  a  fine  show  of 
them  down  there  at  the  crossing. 

GwiLYM.  Yes,  but  the  drought's  spoiling  them  — 
especially  his  White  Spencers.  He's  asked  me  to  go 
[52] 


CHANGE 

down  and  see  them  in  the  morning.     [Going  toward 
back-kitchen.]     Come  on,  John  Henry ! 

Sam  [taking  up  his  newspaper].  'Arf  a  mow,  boys. 
I'm  aht  o'  this  'ere  conspiracy,  tew.  A  man  with 
one  awm  cawn't  afford  ter  git  mixed  up  in  such 
affairs.  It's  as  much  as  my  job  would  be  worth. 
Ta,  ta !     [Follows  the  others  through  kitchen.] 

Lewis.     Sit  down.     Now  what  is  it? 

[Lewis  takes  the  armchair.    Twm  takes  the 
chair  by  the  window,  Dai  that  to  the  left  of 
dresser.] 
•   TwM.     I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Lewis;  they're  try- 
ing to  trick  us  workingmen  that  they've  been  ex- 
ploiting all  our  lives. 

Lewis  [turning  to  Dai,  as  if  used  to  Twm's  out- 
bursts].   Well? 

Dai.  The  masters  are  going  to  run  up  a  special 
train  to-morrow  with  two  hundred  blacklegs 

Lewis  [rising].     What? 

Dai.     Yes.     We  had  word  to-day  from  Cardiff. 

Twifci.  It  makes  me  sick  to  think  there  are  men  in 
the  country  to-day  will  take  the  gold  of  the  capitalist 
to  betray  their  fellow-workers! 

Lewis.    Dai,  those  blacklegs  are  not  to  come  in. 

Dai.    And  what's  more,  the  soldiers  in  the  next 
[53] 


CHANGE 

valley  have  been  shifted  up.     They're  only  just  over 
the  hill 

Lewis.  Soldiers  or  no  soldiers,  those  blacklegs 
are  not  to  come  in. 

TwM.  Soldiers?  Tools  in  the  hands  of  the  privi- 
leged classes,  grinding  down  the 

Dai.     What's  to  be  done,  Lewis? 

Lewis  [pacing  the  room].  There's  a  lot  to  be 
done,  Dai.  If  those  blacklegs  come  in,  they'll 
break  the  strike. 

Dai.    Yes,  I  know. 

Lewis.  It  would  be  fatal  to  the  whole  cause  for  us 
to  be  beaten  here.  Aberpandy  gave  the  lead.  Who- 
ever else  gives  in,  we've  got  to  go  on  to  the  bitter  end. 

Dai.  And  then,  there's  the  bye-election  coming 
off.  It  would  cost  Pinkerton  hundreds  of  votes  if 
the  strike  was  to  be  broken  here 

TwM.  Of  course!  Of  course!  It's  hopelessness 
if  he  can't  keep  his  own  district  loyal. 

Lewis.  Look  here.  There's  only  one  thing  to 
do.  Get  them  to  wire  from  Cardiff  telling  us  what 
time  the  train  starts.  Then  we'll  call  a  demonstra- 
tion up  here  on  Bryndu  an  hour  or  so  before  the 
train  gets  to  Aberpandy.     It  will  have  to  slow  up  at 

the  crossing 

[54] 


CHANGE 

TwM.  Dyna  fe!  I  see!  Da  iawn!  And  then 
we  can  get  the  men  down  to  the  crossing  and  pull  the 
blacklegs  off  the  train 

Lewis.  Yes.  We've  only  got  to  close  the 
gates 

Dai.  It's  risky,  Lewis  —  and  the  soldiers  only 
over  the  hill. 

Lewis.  But  you  know  what  blacklegs  are !  They 
nearly  always  give  in  when  they  see  a  crowd 

TwM.  Anyhow,  a  bit  of  a  row  won't  do  much 
harm  neither.  It's  time  the  public  was  shown  that 
organized  labor  is  a  power  in  the  land. 

Dai.     You're  sure  it's  worth  it,  Lewis? 

Lewis.  It's  worth  everything.  Don't  you  see 
it's  worth  everything?  If  we  let  them  beat  us  now, 
it's  the  beginning  of  the  end.  You  can't  expect  a 
strike  like  this  to  be  a  Sunday-school  tea-party. 
You're  not  weakening,  Dai? 

Dai.  No,  I'm  not  weakening.  I've  taken  my 
side  with  the  workingmen  here.  It  looks  as  if  it 
may  cost  me  my  job  in  school.  But  I'll  stick  to  my 
side.     Don't  be  afraid. 

Lewis.  Good  boy,  Dai.  We  must  see  the  Com- 
mittee to-night. 

Dai.  If  you'll  take  my  advice,  Lewis,  you'll 
[55] 


CHANGE 

keep  out  of  this.  I've  had  a  tip  that  the  police  have 
got  their  eye  on  you  because  of  the  speeches  you've 
been  making.  K  they  see  you  organizing  this, 
they'll  be  sure  to  think  there's  something  in  the 
wind;  and  that  would  spoil  all. 

Lewis.    Aay,  p'raps  you're  right. 

Dai.  They're  watching  you  closely,  now.  You're 
a  marked  man. 

TwM.  You'd  better  leave  the  demonstration  to 
Dai  and  me.     It'll  be  all  right.     I'll  make  a  speech. 

Dai.  If  they  think  there's  trouble  brewing, 
they'll  have  the  soldiers  over  at  once.  Now,  if  you, 
Lewis,  were  to  lie  low  until  the  last  moment 

TwM.     We'll  work  it  up.    Leave  that  to  me! 

Dai.  And  then  slipped  down  to  the  crossing  and 
made  an  appeal  to  the  blacklegs  to  go  away  without 
causing  trouble 

TwM.     Duck  the  devils  in  the  river,  I  would! 

Lewis.  Right,  Dai!  Your  way's  the  right  one. 
There's  no  need  to  make  a  row  if  we  can  avoid  it. 
Look  here!     I'll  stay  in  till  you  send  for  me,  shall  I? 

Dai.  Yes,  that  will  be  best.  We'll  take  that  as 
fixed,  then? 

Lewis.    Very  well. 

Dai.  There's  another  matter  I  want  to  talk 
[56] 


CHANGE 

about,  too.  [He  takes  out  a  letter,  smiling  myster- 
iously.] 

Lewis.    Oh!    What's  that? 

Dai.  You  know  they're  going  to  appomt  a 
miner's  agent  for  the  new  district  they've  opened  up 
in  Carmarthenshire? 

Lewis.    Yes? 

Dai.  Well,  Pinkerton's  pushing  you  for  all  he's 
worth.  It's  pretty  sure  now,  he  says,  that  you'll  be 
able  to  have  it  for  the  asking. 

Lewis.  He  mentioned  it  to  me  some  time  ago, 
but  there  was  nothing  settled  then. 

TwM.  If  it  had  been  anybody  else  but  you,  I'd 
have  had  a  shot  myself.  But,  of  course,  I  shouldn't 
stand  a  chance  against  you. 

Dai  [giving  Lewis  the  letter].  There's  nothing 
private  in  it.  I'm  glad  the  opportunity  is  coming 
your  way.  You've  always  had  an  ambition  to  give 
your  whole  time  to  the  Labor  Movement.  Pinker- 
ton  says  something  about  starting  at  once 

Lewis.     At  once?    But 

TwM.  There's  nothing  to  stop  you,  anyhow. 
Don't  you  be  afraid  for  Aberpandy.  There's  men 
here  can  keep  the  cause  going. 

Lewis.  It's  Gwilym  I'm  thinking  of.  He's 
[57] 


CHANGE 

going  to  Australia  in  five  weeks'  time.  I  don't  like 
the  idea  of  leaving  him  just  before  he  goes.  I  dare 
say  it  could  be  arranged  —  I  don't  want  to  miss  a 
chance  like  this 

Dai.  Oh,  that'll  be  all  right.  I'm  sure  Pinkerton 
can  manage  it.     I'll  drop  a  line  to  him  to-night 

Lewis.  Of  course,  if  it  came  to  that,  I  could  run 
up  week-ends. 

Dai.    That'll  be  all  right.    Don't  you  worry! 

TwM.  It's  strange  what  a  soft  spot  you've  all 
got  for  Gwilym.  You've  been  a  good  butty  to  him, 
I  must  say,  ever  since  you  were  children. 

Lewis.  Well,  you  see,  Twm,  he's  always  been  the 
weak  one  of  us  three  boys,  and  I  got  into  the  habit  of 
looking  after  him  when  we  were  in  school. 

Dai.  He  cost  you  many  a  fight  up  there  in  the 
British  School,  did  Gwilym.  By  the  way,  is  it  true 
that  John  Henry's  thrown  up  the  ministry? 

Lewis.  Yes.  Things  are  very  much  strained 
between  him  and  the  old  man  because  of  it. 

Dai.  Yes,  I  suppose  it's  a  bit  unpleasant.  Look 
here,  why  doesn't  he  go  away  for  a  bit?  There's  the 
Male  Voice  Party  going  up  to  London  to-morrow 
morning  to  sing  for  the  Strike  Fund.  A  good  tenor 
like  John  Henry  would  be  very  useful. 
[581 


CHANGE 

Lewis.  I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  I'll  mention 
it  to  him. 

TwM.    And  Gwilym's  going  for  good? 

Lewis.    For  some  years,  anyway. 

Dai.  It's  rather  strange.  I  may  be  going  to 
Australia  about  that  time,  too! 

Lewis  [surprised].    You.''    To  Australia? 

Dai.  Yes.  You  know  that  some  of  the  old 
brigade  on  the  Council  are  trying  to  get  rid  of  me 
because  of  the  part  I've  played  in  the  strike? 

Lewis.    Well? 

Dai.  They've  been  raking  up  some  trouble  about 
the  registers.  If  I  get  the  sack,  I'm  going  out  to 
Austraha,  too.     That's  the  place  for  a  Labor-man. 

Lewis.     Are  they  likely  to  turn  you  out? 

Dai.     It's  touch  and  go. 

TwM.  It'll  be  another  case  of  victimizing  the 
friend  of  the  workingman. 

Dai.  There's  a  cattle-boat  going  from  Cardiff 
in  five  weeks'  time.  Somebody's  taking  out  a  breed 
they  want  to  try  in  Austraha  and  New  Zealand. 
There's  three  or  four  chaps  from  Aberpandy  going 
to  work  their  passages.     It's  not  difficult  work. 

Lewis.     Let's  hope  it  won't  come  to  that. 

Dai  [rising],  I  don't  care  much  if  it  does.  We'd 
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better  be  off  now  to  call  on  the  Committee.    Come 
on,  Twm. 

Lewis.  And  you'll  come  for  me  when  you  want 
me  in  the  morning? 

Dai.  Yes.  P'raps  Twm  will  run  up.  [He  goes  to- 
ward door,  preceded  by  Twm.] 

Twm.  We'll  teach  them  a  thing  or  two.  Soli- 
darity, that's  what  we  want.     Solidarity  of  labor! 

Lewis  [taking  Dai  by  the  arm].  You  won't  for- 
get to  write  to  Pinkerton? 

Dai.  That'll  be  all  right.  [Patting  him  on 
shoulder.]  You've  got  a  great  future,  Lewis  —  a 
great  future.  If  I  go  to  Australia,  I'll  often  think 
of  you.  You're  bound  to  make  a  name  for  yourself 
sooner  or  later. 

Lewis.    Diolch  i  ti,  Dai. 

Dai.     Well,  noswath  dda  nawr. 

Twm.    Noswath  dda,  Lewis. 

[Dai  and  Twm  go  out.  Lewis  stands  for  a 
moment  in  thought,  then  goes  to  the  table 
and  takes  up  the  letter  given  him  by  Dai. 
As  he  reads  it,  he  smiles  with  pleasure. 
He  opens  back-kitchen  door  and  whistles  to 
those  outside.  They  are  heard  approaching.] 
Lewis.  They're  gone  now,  boys. 
[601 


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Enter  John  Henry,  Gwilym,  and  Sam.  John 
Henry  has  a  few  crimson  sweet-pea  blooms  in  his 
hand.    Lewis  sits  down  in  armchair. 

Gwilym.     Conspirators  departed,  eh,  Lewis? 
Lewis  [ivith  a  little  start,  which  he  covers  with  an 
affectation  of  lightness].    Yes.     All  gone.     All  gone. 
Gwilym  [pointing  to  the  letter  in  Lewis's  hand]. 
What  have  you  got  there  —  a  list  for  the  guillotine? 
Lewis.    This?    Oh,  only  a  letter!    Bit  of  busi- 
ness.    That's  all. 

[Sam  and  John  Henry  take  the  seats  they  occu- 
pied before.    Gwilym  goes  to  the  dresser, 
and  adds  the  blooms  to  those  already  in 
the  vase.] 
Sam.    Accordin*  ter  wot  I  'ear,  Dai  Matthews 
'as  bin  gittin'  inter  trouble  on  acahnt  of  torkin' 
politics  in  school  an'  one  thing  and  another. 

Lewis.  He  suggested,  John  Henry,  that  you 
might  like  to  join  the  Male  Voice  Party.  They're 
going  to  sing  in  London,  starting  to-morrow.  They'd 
be  glad  of  a  good  first  tenor. 

John  Henry  [with  some  eagerness].  Would  they, 
really? 

Sam  [sadly].   Wish  I  was  a  tenor,  first  tenor,  second 
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tenor,  third  tenor  —  any  bloomin'  tenor !  I'd  give  a 
lot  ter  sit  dahn  ter  a  plaite  o'  fish  and  chips  in  Cannin* 
Tahn  agen.     I  would.     Not  'arf ! 

[Lewis  is  re-reading  the  letter.] 

GwiLYM.     Are  you  homesick,  Sam? 

Sam.  It  ain't  so  much  bein'  'omesick  as  sick  of 
Aberpandy.  Some'ah  I  ain't  at  'ome  dahn  'ere. 
Even  the  beer  don't  taiste  the  saime.  I've  traied  it 
maild;  I've  traied  it  bitter,  and  I've  traied  it  mixed. 
[Cheerfully.]  But  it  ain't  no  good  grumblin',  is  it? 
Much  better  to  taike  things  as  they  come.  I  think 
I'll  just  'op  on  to  a  tram  and  go  dahn  to  the  "Stag 
and  Pheasant ' '  for  'arf  a  bitter. 

John  Henry  [to  Lewis].  D'you  think  they  really 
want 

GwiLYM.     You're  not  seriously  thinking  of  it? 

John  Henry.     Well,  I  wouldn't  mind. 

GwiLYM.  You  see,  there's  mother.  You've  only 
been  here  a  couple  of  days.  She  wouldn't  like  you 
to  run  away  at  once. 

John  Henry,  Oh,  yes!  There's  mother,  of 
course. 

Sam  [looking  toward  the  window],     'Ere  they  are 
comin'  up  the  'ill,  and  Isaac  Pugh  with  them.     I'm 
goin'  ter  'op  it  —  aht  through  the  back.  [Crosses  to 
[62] 


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kitchen  door.]  Not  a  word  ter  the  boss,  maind  yer! 
Well,  nows  dawkee,  boys !  [He  goes  out. 

Lewis.     I'm  going  out  into  the  garden.     I  don't 
want  to  quarrel  with  old  Pugh  again. 

[He  goes  out.  Voices  are  heard  on  the  road.] 

GwEN  [just  outside  door].     Won't  you  come  in  for 
a  minute,  Isaac  Pugh? 

Pugh.     Well,  indeed,  just  a  minute  then,  just  a 
minute! 

Enter  Price,  Gwen,  and  Isaac  Pugh.  They  are 
all  in  their  best  clothes,  old-fashioned  garments  and 
very  worn.  Price  is  carrying  a  big  tonic  sol-fa 
hymn  book. 

They're  burying  old  Jonah  Jones  to-morrow,  and  I 
promised  to  go  up  to  the  prayer  meeting  there  to- 
night. [To  GwiLYM,  kindly.]  How  are  you  this 
evening? 

GwiLYM.     Pretty  well,  thank  you. 
Pugh  [to  John  Henry  vxith  cold  politeness].     And 
how  are  you,  John  Henry? 
John  Henry.     All  right,  thanks.     How  are  you? 
[Pugh  takes  the  chair  by  the  window.      John 
Henry  takes  "Cymru"  from  the  table  and 
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idly  turns  over  the  pages.    He  is  obviously 
somewhat  uncomfortable.     Price,  after  a  few 
quiet  words  with  Gwilym,  takes  the  arm- 
chair, ignoring  John  Henry  altogether.] 
GwEN   [taking  off  bonnet   and    cloak],    Where's 
Lewis? 
John  Henry.    Out  in  the  garden. 
GwEN.    Has  he  got  his  waistcoat  on,  Gwilmy? 
There's  no  trusting  the  evenings,  however  hot  it  is. 
Gwilym.    That's  all  right,  ma'am.    He's  got  it  on. 
[GwEN  takes  up  her  cloak  and  bonnet  very 
carefully,  and  carries  them  into  the  parlor. ] 
PuGH.    Aay.    As  I  was  saying,  they're  burying 
poor  old  Jonah  to-morrow. 

GwEN  [as  she  combes  from  parlor].  Will  you  stop 
for  a  bit  of  supp)er,  Isaac  Pugh? 

PuGH.  No,  indeed,  thank  you  fawr,  Mrs.  Price. 
You  see,  poor  Jonah's  wife  was  a  second  cousin  to 
my  missis;  so  it  wouldn't  look  the  thing  for  me  not 
to  be  there  at  the  prayer  meeting. 

GwEN.  Well,  Jonah  might  have  treated  her 
better,  poor  thing!  But  now  he's  dead  and  gone, 
I  s'pose  it's  only  right  to  paint  him  whiter  than  he 
was.  [To  Price.]  Don't  you  think  you'd  better 
put  on  your  everyday  coat,  John? 
[64] 


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[Price  has  been  sitting  with  every  appearance 
of  grim  displeasure  on  his  face.    Now  and 
then  he  glances  at  John  Henry  in  fierce 
anger.     At  Gwen's  suggestion,  he  gets  up 
and  takes  off  his  cuffs,  which  are  held  to- 
gether by  huge  buttons.     Then  he  removes 
his  coat,  showing  a  rough  gray  flannel  shirt. 
Without  a  word  he  carries  the  things  into 
the  parlor,  and,  coming  bach,  takes  his  coat 
from  behind  the  door.] 
PuGH.     If  they  ask  me  to  offer  up  a  few  words,  it 
won't  be  easy  to  know  quite  what  to  say.  He  wasn't  a 
full  member  in  Horeb.     [  Turning  to  Price.]    Talking 
of  Horeb,  Rees  the  Top  Shop  and  Powell  the  Stock- 
ings were  telling  me  in  the  vestry  to-night  they're 
pretty  sure  Jones  of  Dowlais  will  get  the  vote  in  the 
Church  Meeting. 

Price.     I  dare  say.     [He  sends  a  look  of  rage  to- 
ward John  Henry.] 

PuGH.     And  if  he  gets  it  —  mind  you,  I  don't  say 

he  will 

Price.    He'll  get  it  —  now!    [He  sends  another 
look  toward  John  Henry.] 

Gwen  [trying  to  change  the  subject].   Who's  preach- 
ing with  us  next  Sunday? 

[65] 


CHANGE 

PuGH.  Well,  indeed,  now  you  come  to  ask,  I 
think  it's  our  William  Ewart  is  there  next  Sunday. 

GwEN.  Oh,  yes!  William  Ewart!  Of  course, 
if  we  are  spared,  we  shall  be  sure  to  come  to  hear 
William  Ewart,  morning  and  evening.  [She  looks 
at  John  Henry,  and  turns  away  stifling  a  little  sigh.] 

PuGH.  Don't  you  go  out  of  your  way,  Mrs. 
Price.  Well,  I  must  be  oflF  now,  indeed.  [With  a 
touch  of  triumph.]  I  suppose  if  I  don't  see  you  before. 
Price,  you'll  be  at  the  Church  Meeting  on  Tues- 
day? 

[Price,  goaded  by  all  this,  flashes  round  to  give 
an  angry  reply,   bvi  it  is  anticipated  by 
GwEN.] 
Gwen  [quickly].     Oh,  yes,  of  course.     We  shall  be 
there  for  sure  —  both  of  us. 

PuGH.  Well,  good  night  now.  Good  night,  all 
of  you.  [He  goes  out. 

[There  is  a  short  pause.    Price  looks  hard  at 
John  Henry,  who  is  pretending  to  read. 
GwiLYM  is  watching  his  father  toith  con- 
siderable apprehension.] 
Gwen.     Well,  I'm  glad  I  asked  him  to  stop  to 
supper,  and  I'm  glad  he  didn't  stop.     Nobody  can 
say  we  owe  the  Pughs  anything.     [She  goes  toward 
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the  back-kitchen,  but  is  stopped  by  the  tone  of  her  hus- 
band's next  words.] 

Price  [in  a  cold,  hard  voice].  I  didn't  see  you  in 
chapel  to-night,  John  Henry. 

John  Henry.     No,  I  wasn't  there,  'nhad. 

Price.  Wasn't  there?  And  first  Sunday  in  the 
month,  too? 

John  Henry.     I  didn't  feel  like  it. 

GwiLYM.  It's  rather  close  this  evening  —  [goes 
toward  fireplace]  —  'nhad. 

Price.  There's  plenty  of  room  in  Horeb  now. 
You  needn't  be  afraid  of  that 

Gwen.  Would  you  like  to  have  your  supper 
now,  John? 

Price  [without  noticing  her],  I  suppose  you  think 
it's  a  very  clever  thing  to  have  everybody  talking 
about  you  like  this? 

John  Henry.    About  me  ? 

Price.  Yes;  the  deacons  and  the  members. 
D'you  think  they  don't  talk?  Haven't  I  been 
working  all  this  time  to  keep  Jones  of  Dowlais  out 
of  Horeb?  And  here  you  are  —  my  own  son  —  ten 
times  worse  than  him.  D'you  think  I  don't  know 
what  they're  saying  behind  my  back? 

John  Henry.  I'm  sorry,  'nhad;  but  I  can't 
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help  it.  [With  an  air  of  being  tired  of  the  whole  matter^ 
he  gets  up  and  crosses  toward  the  window^  where  he 
stands  looking  out.] 

GwEN  [advancing  toward  table].  Nawr,  John, 
nawr!  You  mustn't  go  on  like  that.  He  wouldn't 
have  given  it  up  if  he  didn't  think  it  was  right. 
After  all,  there's  no  disgrace  in  it — not  really,  John! 
It's  only  the  foolishness  of  people's  talk.  And  he'll 
go  in  for  the  teaching.  A  clever  boy  like  him  can 
easily  get  into  an  intermediate;  and  you  can't  deny, 
John,  it's  nearly  as  respectable  as  being  a  preacher. 

Price.  He's  chosen  his  own  way.  It  makes  no 
difference  to  me  now  what  that  way  is 

GwEN.    John! 

GwiLYM.     'Nhad!     'Nhad! 

Price.  One  thing  I  know  —  he'll  never  touch 
another  penny  of  my  money. 

John  Henry  [hotly].  And  he'll  never  ask  for  it, 
either ! 

GwEN.    John !    John !  Don't  be  hard  on  him 

John  Henry.    It's  all  right,  ma'am 

GwEN.  He's  only  a  boy  after  all,  and  he  didn't 
understand.  He's  very  sorry  if  he's  upset  your 
plans  about  Horeb.  You  are  sorry,  aren't  you, 
John  Henry? 

[68] 


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Price.  Plans  for  Horeb?  He's  upset  more  than 
my  plans  for  Horeb.  [To  John  Henry.]  Haven't 
we  been  slaving  and  sacrificing  all  these  years? 
Haven't  we  given  you  education  when  you  might 
have  had  to  go  to  pit?  Haven't  we  done  all  we 
could  —  books,  clothes,  and  all  the  rest?  And  what 
;  .vas  it  all  for?  To  have  you  turn  out  an  unbeliever 
at  the  end  of  all ! 

GwEN.  No.  He's  not  an  unbeliever.  You're 
not  an  unbeliever,  are  you,  John  Henry? 

John  Henry  [wearily].  But  'nhad,  'nhad!  Can't 
f7ou  understand?    Can't  you  see? 

Price.  I  can  see  that  you've  turned  your  back  on 
the  religion  you've  been  brought  up  in.  I  can  under- 
stand that  you  despise  the  faith  of  your  father  and 
your  mother 

John  Henry.  Despise?  I  —  despise  your  faith? 
Why,  good  heavens,  it's  the  one  thing  I  envy 
you! 

Price.  If  you  don't  despise  it,  why  have  you 
given  it  up?    Answer  me  that. 

GwiLYM.  But,  'nhad,  does  he  despise  your  coat 
because  it  doesn't  happen  to  fit  him? 

Price  [not  unkindly].  Now,  Gwilym,  don't  you 
interfere. 

[69J 


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GwEN  [eagerly].  Yes,  yes.  Speak  your  mind, 
you,  Gwilym  bach ! 

GwiLYM.  You  musn't  be  unjust  to  John  Henry, 
'nhad.     [He  goes  to  chair  right  of  table.] 

Price  [to  Gwen].  There  you  are,  he*s  turning 
Gwilym  against  me  now 

Gwilym.    No  'nhad,  no! 

Price.  He  is,  I  tell  you.  He  wants  to  make  you 
like  himself.  It's  the  way  with  all  these  unbelievers. 
They're  at  it  now  down  there  by  the  bridge 

John  Henry.  But  surely,  if  you're  allowed  to 
preach  what  you  like 

Price.  Oh,  yes!  You  can  argue,  I  dare  say.  If 
I'd  let  you  go  to  the  pit  instead  of  sending  you  to 
school  and  college 

John  Henry  [vnth  irritation].  Yes,  but  you  sent 
me  to  school  and  college 

Price  [raising  his  voice].  And  whose  money  kept 
you  in  school?  Whose  money  helped  to  keep  you 
in  college?  I'd  rather  have  thrown  it  into  the 
river. 

John  Henry.  I'm  not  sure  it  wouldn't  have  been 
better. 

Gwen.    Now,  machan-i! 

Price.  That's  your  gratitude,  is  it?  That's  the 
[70] 


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thanks  I  get  for  all  these  years  —  and  the  extra 
turns  I  worked  because  of  you. 

John  Henry  [bursting  out  angrily].  Oh,  I'm 
sick  of  it  all,  sick  of  struggling  against  what  can't  be 
conquered,  sick  of  being  badgered  and  bullied  by 
people  too  dull  to  understand !  I  tell  you  I  couldn't 
help  it.  Why  don't  you  let  me  alone?  I  took  the 
honest  course  where  it  was  easy  to  play  double. 
You  make  no  allowance  for  that.  You  wanted  a 
preacher  in  the  family.  It  flattered  your  pride. 
That's  what  you're  thinking  of  now.  You  don't  care 
about  me  and  the  hell  on  earth  I've  had  over  all  this. 
You  wouldn't  care  if  I  sold  myself  ten  times  over 

GwEN  [frightened].  Now,  John  Henry  bach,  you 
mustn't  talk  like  that  —  not  to  your  father 

Price.  So  it's  come  to  this,  has  it?  [With  cold 
restraint.]  If  my  eye  offends  me,  I  can  pluck  it 
out 

GwiLYM  [rising].     'Nhad! 

John  Henry  [unth  the  same  cold  restraint].  What 
d'you  mean? 

Price.  I  mean  that  I've  done  with  you  —  for- 
ever! 

GwEN  [with  a  gasp  of  terror].    No!    No!    John, 

he's  our  child 

[71] 


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Price.    He's  mine  no  longer. 

GwEN  [rushing  to  John  Henry].  Don't  you  listen 
to  him !  Don't  you  listen  to  him !  It's  only  because 
he's  in  a  temper  about  Jones  of  Dowlais 

John  Henry  [who  has  not  turned  his  eyes  from 
Price's  face] .    So  you've  done  with  me  ? 

Price.    Yes. 

Gwen.  But  I  don't  care,  'nghariad-i!  I  don't 
care  about  you  giving  up  the  ministry.  I'm  your 
mother;  that's  all  I  care  about,  and  if  you're  an  un- 
behever,  it's  the  same  you  are  to  me,  boy  bach 

Price.  Gwen,  do  you  put  your  children  before 
your  God? 

Gwen  [in  a  low  voice].    Even  before  my  God! 

Price  [to  John  Henry].  You've  brought  a  curse 
on  the  house.     Get  out  of  my  sight ! 

Gwilym  [advancing  toward  his  father].  Think 
what  you're  doing,  'nhad! 

Price.  He's  taken  my  money  from  me.  He's 
robbed  me  of  my  rest.  He's  no  better  than  a  com- 
mon thief! 

John  Henry.    I'm  going.    I've  suffered  enough. 

GwiLYM.    No,  no!    It  will  blow  over! 

Gwen.  But  what  about  me?  D'you  hear,  both 
of  you?    What  about  me? 

[72] 


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[John   Henry,    looking   toward  his   mother, 

softens  a  little.     Then,  looking  toward  his 

father,  he  grows  hard  again,  and   with   a 

savage  exclamation,  takes  his  hat  and  goes 

out,  banging  the  door.    Gwilym  sinks  into 

his  chair  and  covers  his  face  with  his  hands, 

evidently  suffering  a  shock.     Gwen,  after  a 

moment  of  helplessness,  turns  furiously  on 

her  husband,  and  Gwilym  jumps  to  his  feet, 

clutching   the   chair  for   support.    Lewis, 

anxious   and   astonished,    appears    in    the 

doorway  of  the  kitchen.] 

Gwen  [to  Price,  vehemently].    You  brute!    You 

wicked,   cruel   brute!    You've   driven  him   away. 

I  hate  you !    I  hate  you ! 

Gwilym  [swaying  to  and  fro  as  he  moves  toward  his 

father].    I  can't  stand  it.     I  can't  stand 

[He  collapses,  fainting,  on  to  the  armchair. 
Gwen,  Lewis,  and  Price  hurry  toward  him.] 
Gwen.     Duw  mawr!    He's  bad.    Lewis,  run  for 
the  doctor.    Quick,  Lewis,  quick! 

Lewis  [loosening  Gwilym's  clothing] .  He's  fainted ; 
that's  all.  [To  Price.]  Get  some  water.  [To 
Gwen.]  Open  the  door,  ma'am. 

[GwEN  opens  the  door.    Price  hastens  into  the 
[73] 


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kitchen  and  returns  with  a  glass  of  watery 
which  Lewis  puts  to  Gwilym's  lifs.\ 

Price  {as  Gwilym  stirs].    He's  coming  round. 

Lewis.    Yes,  he's  coming  round. 

[AU  the  differences  between  the  three  have,  for 
the  moment,  disappeared,  as  they  stand 
around  Gwilym  in  equal  solicitude.  Then 
Gwilym  opens  his  eyes  and  smiles  faintly.] 

Price  [tenderly].    Better  now,  Gwilym  bach? 

Gwilym.     Where  is  he  —  our  John  Henry? 

[The  little  interlude  of  sympathy  ends  with  the 
question.  Lewis  turns  to  his  father  with 
a  hard,  inquiring  gaze,  beneath  which  the 
old  man  shrinks  a  little.  Gwen,  looking 
through  the  open  door,  begins  to  cry  quietly.] 

Gwen.    He's  going  down  to  the  crossing.     And  he 
hasn't  looked  back.     And  he  hasn't  looked  back. 

Curtain 


[74] 


ACT  m 


ACT  m 

Time:  Monday  Morning. 

Scene:  The  same. 

The  iahle  has  been  dravm  out  toward  the  middle  of  the 
room.  Breakfast  is  just  over.  Gwiltm,  Sam,  and 
Lewis  are  seated  in  their  usual  places  during  meals. 
There  is  a  short  spell  of  silence.  Gwilym,  as  if 
thinking  of  the  previous  evening,  sighs  quietly  and 
shakes  his  head.  Lewis,  laboring  under  suppressed 
excitement^  moves  uneasily  on  his  chair,  sending 
occasional  glances  toward  the  window.  Dressed  in  his 
working  clothes,  Sam  is  reading  the  *'  Daily  Mail  '* 
as  he  smokes  his  morning  pipe,  at  peace  with  ail  the 
world.  The  old  red  flag  stands  against  the  side  of 
his  chair.  Gwen  eniers  vnth  a  small  tray  holding 
cup,  saucer,  plate,  etc.  She  places  the  tray  on  the 
table,  and  looks  about  her  in  a  troubled  way.  Her  ^ 
manner  betrays  a  mind  heavily  burdened.  She  has 
a  trick  of  sighing  softly  to  herself^ 
[77] 


CHANGE 

Sam  [trying  to  be  cheerful].  Well,  missis,  yer'll 
*ave  Lizzie  Ann  back  with  yer  this  momin',  eh? 

GwEN  [arranging  some  crockery  on  the  dresser]. 
Yes,  I  hope  so,  Sam. 

Sam.  She's  a  useful  kaind  o'  gel  is  Lizzie  Ann,  and 
no  nonsense  abaht  'er.  I  dare  say  she'll  be  glad  ter 
be  back.  "  There's  no  plaice  like  'ome"  —  as  the 
song  says. 

GwEN.     It's  a  sad  home  she's  coming  back  to. 

Sam.  Cheer  up,  missis!  Cheer  up!  We  ain't 
dead  yet  —  none  of  us. 

GwEN  [cutting  bread  and  butter  for  the  small  plate 
on  the  tray].  If  anybody  had  told  me,  I  wouldn't 
have  believed  it.  Turning  him  out  like  that  —  and 
on  a  Sunday  night,  too!  There's  thirty  years 
we've  been  Hving  up  here  on  the  Twmp,  always  as 
tidy  and  respectable  as  the  best  of  them.  What 
the  neighbors  will  be  saying  I  hardly  dare  to 
think. 

Sam.    There's  no  need  ter  tell  'em,  missis! 

GwEN.    No.    They  know  already,  Sam. 

Sam.    Know?    'Ah  do  they  know? 

GwEN.    Neighbors  always  know,  Sam. 

[Knock  at  door. 

GwEN.    Come  in. 

[781 


CHANGE 

Enter  Jinnie  Pugh,  a  little  girl  of  twelve  or  thirteen. 
She  is  carrying  *'  The  South  Wales  Daily  News." 
All  bid  her  good  morning. 

Jinnie.  Please,  Mrs.  Price,  here's  the  paper  from 
father.  And  please,  has  Mr.  Price  finished  with 
"Cymru"? 

[She  gives  the  paper  to  Mrs.  Price,  who  gives 
it  to  GwiLYM.    He  takes  out  some  inside 
sheets  and  passes  the  rest  to  Lewis.] 
GwEN.    Yes.    It's  here  somewhere.    [She  looks 
about  the  dresser.] 

Lewis  [hastily  scanning  the   sheets],    D'you   see 
anything  there,  Gwilym,  about  the  new  district 
they're  forming  in  Carmarthenshire? 
Gwilym.    I'll  have  a  look. 
Lewis.    Or  about  the  strike  —  you  know,  the 
blacklegs? 

Sam.  I  see  in  the  "Mile"  [Mail]  'ere  there's  been 
some  trouble  dahn  Swansea  way.  Three  p'licemen 
in  the  'orspital.  But,  arter  all,  p'licemen  is  only 
p'licemen. 

Lewis.     Nothing    very    special    here.     I    hope 
there'll  be  no  trouble  in  our  valley. 
,  Sam.    If  th^re  is,  I  'ope  the  authorities  will  taike 
[79] 


CHANGE 

a  pretty  strong  laine  —  with  orl  jew  respect  ter  you, 
Lewis.  O'  course,  I  don't  say  anythin'  agen  knockin* 
a  p'liceman  abaht  nah  and  then  —  but  no  extremes 
—  that's  wot  I  sez  —  no  extremes! 
[The  men  read  in  silence.] 
GwEN  [finding  the  magazine].  Yes.  Here  it  is, 
Jinnie  fach.    [She  gives  the  copy  of  "Cymru"  to 

JiNNIE.] 

Jinnie.  And  please,  Mrs.  Price,  will  you  ask  Mr. 
Price  if  he  will  open  the  prayer  meeting  to-night, 
because  father  is  going  down  to  Treforest  with  our 
William  Ewart. 

GwEN  [with  the  usual  touch  of  hostility].  Oh! 
William  Ewart!  [Overcome  by  curiosity.]  Is  there 
anything  the  matter? 

Jinnie  [proudly].  They're  having  the  big  meet- 
ings in  Salem,  and  one  of  the  preachers  is  taken  ill; 
and  they've  sent  for  our  William  Ewart  to  preach 
down  there  to-night.  He's  going  on  his  holidays 
this  week. 

GwEN.    Where  to,  Jinnie? 

Jinnie.    Llandrindod  Wells. 

GwEN.  Oh!  Going  to  stay  with  his  Aunt  Marged, 
I  s'pose? 

Junma,  No,  though  she  sent  him  an  invite;  but 
[80] 


CHANGE 

—  [proudly]  —  he's  going  to  stop  in  a  boarding- 
house. 

GwEN  [impressed  in  spite  of  herself].  Is  he? 
He'll  be  there  for  a  week  or  ten  days? 

JiNNiE.  A  fortnight.  He's  preaching  in  Builth 
the  second  Sunday.     [She  makes  a  mxrvement  as  if  to 

go.] 

GwEN.  Well,  I'll  tell  Mr.  Price  about  the  prayer 
meeting  as  soon  as  I  take  him  his  breakfast.  He 
hasn't  got  up  yet.  He  isn't  feeling  very  well  this 
morning.    Will  you  have  a  round  cake  before  you  go  ? 

JiNNiE.    Thank  you. 

[Mrs,  Price  gives  her  a  cake,  and  she  goes 
toward  the  door.] 

All.     Grood  morning,  Jinnie. 

JiNNiE.  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Price.  Good  morn- 
ing, all.  [She  goes  out. 

GwEN.  William  Ewart,  indeed!  They  must  be 
getting  very  hard  up  in  Treforest! 

GwiLYM  [laying  down  the  paper].  But,  ma'am 
fach,  you  mustn't  blame  him.     It  isn't  his  fault. 

GwEN.  What  did  he  want  to  write  that  letter 
to  his  father  for? 

GwiLYM.     Well,   how   would   you   feel   if  John 
Henry  hadn't  written  to  you? 
[81] 


CHANGE 

GwEN.  There  was  plenty  for  William  Ewart 
to  write  about  without  bringing  in  our  John  Henry. 

GwiLYM.  Father  would  have  to  know  sooner  or 
later. 

GwEN  [stuhbornly].  He  was  jealous;  that's  what 
was  wrong  with  William  Ewart.  He  knew  our  John 
Henry  was  too  clever  for  him.  I  know  those  Pughs, 
come  you,  boy  bach.  And  there's  John  Henry  — 
that  was  always  a  king  to  William  Ewart  —  turned 
out  of  house  and  home.  I  haven't  closed  my  eyes 
all  night.  And  now,  there  he  is  gone  off  to  London 
with  the  Male  Voice  Party,  without  so  much  as  a 
nightshirt. 

GwiLYM.  Don't  you  worry,  ma'am.  We  can  find 
out  where  he  is  and  send  some  things  after  him. 

GwEN.     Can  we,  Lewis.?* 

Lewis.  Yes,  yes.  Of  course,  that  will  be  all 
right. 

GwEN.  I  was  thinking  in  bed  we  might  be  able 
to  send  some  things  after  him.  If  only  he  could 
have  his  other  suit  now,  and  a  couple  of  shirts  and  a 
few  collars.  It  goes  to  my  heart  to  think  of  him 
looking  so  simple  before  all  the  others.  You  know 
what  a  proud  spirit  he's  got.  Fair  play  for  you, 
Gwilym;  you  follow  my  family  more.  But  John 
[82  1 


CHANGE 

Henry  is  a  Price  —  a  proper  Price;  and  they're  all 
stubborn,  the  Prices.  They're  born  stubborn;  they 
live  stubborn;  and  they  die  that  stubborn  they  keep 
hanging  on  for  months. 

Lewis.  Dai  Matthews  will  tell  us  where  they're 
staying  in  London.  We  can  send  a  parcel  after  him 
this  evening. 

GwEN.  And  I'll  make  some  round  cakes,  nice 
and  fresh,  after  dinner.  He  was  always  fond  of  my 
round  cakes.  I  can't  help  feeling  afraid,  too,  that 
they'll  p'raps  be  giving  him  a  damp  bed.  There 
was  Jones  the  Machine  Shop  caught  his  death  in  a 
damp  bed  in  London,  as  his  wife  will  tell  you  to  this 
day. 

Sam.  'E'U  be  orl  raite,  missis.  Don't  yer  worry 
yer  'ead  abaht  'im.  It'll  do  'im  good.  My  stawrs, 
I'd  'ave  gawn  pretty  quick  if  I'd  'ad  the  chawnce  — 
even  if  it  was  only  goin'  rahnd  with  the  'at!  'E'U 
see  laife.  'E'll  git  polish.  That's  what  'e'U  git  — 
polish! 

GwEN  [with  a  touch  of  dignity].  He's  got  polish 
enough  on  him  already.  Remember  you,  Sam,  he's 
been  down  in  Cardiff  for  two  years. 

Sam  [with  profound  contempt].  Cawdiff?  Caw- 
diflf  ?  Tew  bloomin'  rileway  stations ;  that's  Cawdiff. 
[83] 


CHANGE 

Wite  till  *e  comes  'ome  from  London,  and  'ear  'im 
tork  abaht  it. 

GwEN  [the  mood  of  sadness  rising  again].  "Wait 
till  he  comes  home!"  Aay,  wait!  There's  something 
telling  me  it's  wait  I'll  have  to. 

GwiLYM.  Nonsense,  ma'am  fach!  The  party's 
due  back  inside  a  month 

GwEN.  Ah,  yes.  The  party  may  be.  But  he's  a 
strange  boy  is  our  John  Henry.  He's  like  his  Aunt 
Myfanw'.  You've  only  got  to  look  at  his  nose  and 
chin.  He's  one  of  those  who  remember  things  for- 
ever. I  know  his  nature.  [Shaking  her  head  with 
a  certain  shrewdness  in  her  sorrow.]  I  know  his 
nature,  machan-i.     I've  brought  him  up! 

Sam.  Tut,  tut,  missis !  It'll  pawss  over  —  sooner 
or  later,  laike  everythin'  else;  and  then  all  will  come 
raite  agen. 

GwEN  [shaking  her  head  slowly  as  she  gazes  into 
space  before  her].  No,  Sam.  It's  no  use  saying 
that.  It  won't  all  come  right  again.  I  heard  words 
in  this  room  last  night  that  I  can  never,  never  forget. 
The  words  have  been  spoken,  and  nothing  can  make 
it  as  if  they  had  not  been  said.  They  go  down, 
deep  down  into  your  heart.  For  a  long,  long  time 
it  seems  as  if  you'd  forgotten,  but  one  day  they'll 
[841 


CHANGE 

come  back,  when  you're  sitting  by  the  fire  in  the 
evening  or  doing  your  work  about  the  house. 

Sam.  It  ain't  any  use  broodin',  missis.  The 
world  is  a  'awrd  plaice  for  them  that  don't  forgit. 

GwEN  [in  the  same  tone].  It's  a  hard  thing  for 
a  woman  that's  getting  old  to  see  her  own  husband 
and  her  son  standing  face  to  face  like  that,  and  so 
bitter  against  each  other!  [Trying  to  shake  off  her 
sadness.]  Ah,  well!  I  suppose  I'd  better  take  him 
a  bit  of  breakfast.  [She  pauses  as  she  lifts  the  tray.] 
His  own  son  —  turned  out  into  the  road  —  like  a 
strange  dog! 

[Sighing  quietly  to  herself,  she  goes  off  with 
the  tray  through  the  kitchen.  There  is  a 
short  pause,  in  which  the  three  men  stare 
after  her.] 

GwiLYM.  Poor  old  ma'am !  She's  living  in  a  little 
world  of  her  own 

Sam.  That's  raite.  Yer've  got  it,  Gwilym  —  a 
little  world  of  'er  own.  It's  my  belief  if  she  'ad  ter 
choose  between  'ell  with  you  three  boys  and  'eaven 
without  yer,  she'd  beg  the  Almighty's  pawdon  — 
and  vote  for  'ell. 

IjEWia  [smiling  Mndly].    Of  course,  she  may  be  a 

bit  narrow  in  some  ways,  but  all  the  same ' 

[85] 


CHANGE 

GwiLYM.     Narrow?    Ah,  yes!    But  deep,  danger- 
ously deep 

Sam.  Nah,  I  don't  'old  with  maiking  yerself 
miserable  on  acahnt  of  yer  children,  meself .  If  yer 
want  ter  be  'appy  in  this  'ere  world,  yer've  got  ter 
keep  yer  feelin's  dahn.  Feelin's,  if  yer  let  *em  go 
they're  the  very  devil;  and,  Lewis,  I'm  tellin'  yer  nah, 
don't  yer  forgit  it  neither.  [Lewis  gets  up  and  goes 
to  door,  where  he  stands  for  a  short  time,  looking 
rather  fitrtively  up  the  hill  and  dovm  toward  the  crossing. 
Then  he  returns  to  his  seai,  trying  to  show  interest  in 
Sam's  talk,  but  falling  gradually  into  abstraction.] 
Wot  I  sez  is,  don't  worry.  Tike  things  easy.  As 
the  old  song  sez,  "Yer  'ere  ter-day,  gawn  ter-morrer.'* 
So  why  not  enjoy  yer  i>ot  of  ile  and  yer  paipe  o* 
baccy  while  yer  can?  Look  at  me,  nah!  Born  in 
Cannin'  Tahn,  and  knocked  abaht  the  world  for 
years.  Then,  orl  of  a  sudden,  'appenin'  ter  'ave  a 
drop  tew  much,  I  gits  run  over  dahn  there  at  the 
crossin'  and  loses  me  awm.  I'd  no  clime  for  com- 
pensaish'n,  and  the  Company  offers  me  a  job  at 
eighteen -and-a-tanner  a  week  carryin'  the  bloomin* 
old  flag  abaht.  D'yer  think  I  laike  bein'  stuck  in 
an  *ole  sich  as  this?  It  ain't  me  ambition,  I  tell  yer. 
But  wot's  the  use  o'  turnin'  yerself  insaide  aht  over 
[86] 


CHANGE 

wot  cawn't  be  'elped?  Mike  yer  miserable  self 
'appy  —  that's  my  motter. 

GwiLYM.  That's  all  very  well,  Sam.  But  take 
my  mother's  case  now.     She  can't  help  feeling 

Sam.  Look  'ere,  me  boy.  I'll  tell  yer  wot's 
wrong  with  this  'ere  coimtry  of  yours  —  there's  a 
lot  tew  much  feelings  abaht  for  comfort.  Nah, 
d'yer  remember  Shewni  Good-lookin',  as  yer  call 
'im?  [GwiLYM  nods.]  Faine  nime  ter  give  a  feller 
that  is!  A  pal  o'  mine  was  Shewni;  laiked  'is  pot 
o'  beer  as  much  as  any  man.  Then  the  Revaiv'l 
come  along  —  the  Deewigiad,  as  yer  call  it.  Next 
thing  I  'card,  Shewni'd  been  dahn  on  'is  knees,  call- 
ing 'isself  a  miserable  sinner,  and  prayin*  I'd  be  con- 
verted from  me  evil  ways  —  aht  lahd,  maind  yer. 
Nah,  I  awsk  yer,  wot  can  yer  mike  of  a  man 
laike  that?  Where  is  the  common  sense  o'  sich 
goin's  on? 

GwiLYM.  But  you'll  admit  that  he's  been  a 
steady  fellow  ever  since? 

Sam.    Ow,  I  don't  say  nothin'  abaht  that 

GwiLYM.  And  it  was  a  good  thing  for  his  wife 
and  children  that  it  happened? 

Sam.  Well,  'e  was  a  waild  'un,  and  no  mistaike. 
But  wot  I  sez  is,  where's  the  common  sense  of  it  — 
[  87  ] 


CHANGE 

goin'  dahn  on  'is  knees  and  bringin'  in  my  nime 
laike  that? 

'    GwiLYM  [with  a  amile].    Ah,  well,  Sam!    It's  no 
use  trying  to  explain.    You'd  never  understand 

Sam  [emphatically].  I  can  understand  anything 
that's  got  plain  sense  in  it,  and  I  don't  want  ter 
understand  no  more. 

GwiLYM  [teasingly].    No? 

Sam  [defiantly].    No! 

GwiLYM  [sympathetically].    Hard  luck,  Sam! 

Sam  [confidently].  Don't  yer  worry  abaht  me. 
I'm  orl  raite.  I  can  keep  my  bit  o'  common  sense, 
thank  Gawd!  [Getting  up  and  taking  the  flag.]  Well, 
I  suppose  I'd  better  be  gittin'  dahn  ter  the  crossin* 
agen.  I  'eard  some  tork  of  a  special  bein*  run  up 
ter-day.     Some  of  the  managers,  I  expect. 

Lewis  [eagerly].     What  time,  Sam? 

Sam.  Taime?  I  dunno'  exactly;  some  taime  this 
momin'  I  believe.   You  ain't  'eard  anythin',  'ave  yer? 

Lewis.  I?  No,  no!  [He  turns  away  in  some 
embarrassment.]    I  was  only  wondering,  that's  all. 

Sam  [looking  at  him  keenly].  Ow!  [In  a  light 
tone.]     Well,  I'm  orf . 

GwiLYM.     Half    a    minute,    Sam.     I'm    coming 
down  as  far  as  the  crossing.     \He  goes  to  the  dresser 
[88] 


CHANGE 

and  selects  a  few  white  blooms  from  those  in  the  vase.] 
I  want  to  show  these  White  Spencers  to  old  Roberts. 
He  tells  me  his  are  in  a  bad  way.  I  told  him  all 
along  he'd  planted  them  in  the  wrong  place. 

[GwEN  com£s  in  from  kitchen  with  the  trayi\ 

GwEN.     Going  out  you  are,  Gwilym? 

GwiLYM.    Only  down  to  Roberts's,  ma'am. 

Lewis  [wiih  some  anxiety].  Are  you  going  to  be 
long,  Gwilym? 

GwiLYM.  Not  if  he  doesn't  start  talking  about 
his  garden. 

Lewis.    If  I  were  you 

Sam  [in  the  doorway].  Lot  o'  people  abaht  this 
mornin'.  Come  on,  Gwilym!  [Over  his  shoulder.] 
Well,  boree  dawkee,  missis.    Boree  dawkee. 

[He  goes  out,  followed  by  Gwilym. 

GwEN  [beginning  to  clear  the  table].  Your  father 
wouldn't  stay  in  bed  after  all.  Here  he  is  coming 
down. 

Lewis.  Is  he?  [Taking  up  the  newspapers.] 
When  —  if  anybody  comes  for  me,  ma'am,  I'll  be 
reading  in  the  parlor. 

GwEN.    All  right. 

[Lewis  goes  into  parlor* 
189] 


CHANGE 

Enter  Pbice  from  the  kitchen,  dressed  in  his  weekday 
clothes,  and  carrying  his  boots  in  his  hand.  He 
glances  at  Gwen.  There  is  evidently  a  strain  in  tJieir 
relations.  He  sits  down  in  the  armchair  and  puts  on 
his  boots.  WithotU  noticing  him,  Gwen  begins  to 
clear  the  table,  gathering  the  things  into  the  tray. 

Price.  I've  been  thinking,  Gwen,  I'd  better  go 
down  this  morning  and  see  Peters  the  Insurance 
about  Gwilym's  ticket. 

GwEN  [distantly].     Oh! 

Price.  From  what  they  tell  me,  it  will  cost  an 
awful  lot  of  money;  but  I  dare  say  I  can  raise  a  few 
pounds  over  what  I've  got  in  the  Post  OflBce. 

Gwen.    Yes,  I  dare  say. 

Price.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  this  old  strike  we 
oould  have  managed  well  enough.  [He  looks  in- 
quiringly at  Gwen,  as  if  expecting  some  remark.  She 
is  sighing  quietly.]     What's  the  matter,  Gwen? 

Gwen.     I'm  thinking  of  our  John  Henry. 

Price  [bitterly].  I've  been  thinking  of  him,  too  — 
thinking  of  the  words  he  used  to  me  last  night  —  to 
me,  his  father. 

Gwen.    It's  of  the  words  you  used  to  him  I'm 
thinking,  John  —  to  him,  your  son. 
19Q1 


CHANGE 

Price.     He  was  in  the  wrong, 

GwEN.  P'raps  so.  I  don't  know.  But  he's  our 
son. 

Price.  I've  got  my  duty  toward  God  as  well  as 
my  duty  toward  my  children.  Have  you  thought 
of  that? 

GwEN.  I'm  not  afraid  of  that,  John.  I  think 
God  understands  us  mothers.  Perhaps  you  can't; 
you're  only  John  Henry's  father. 

Price  [with  a  little  unexpected  sadness  in  his 
voice].  Are  you  going  to  turn  against  me,  too, 
Gwen? 

GwEN  [with  a  sudden  movement  toward  him]. 
No,  John  bach,  I  don't  want  to  turn  against  you. 
It  will  never  be  my  fault  if  I  do.  We've  lived  here 
together,  man  and  wife,  for  over  thirty  years.  We've 
seen  good  days  and  bad,  John,  and  we've  always 
faced  them  together.  And  you've  been  a  good 
husband  to  me  always.  Often  and  often  I've 
thought  of  it,  when  I  know  of  many  here  in  Aber- 
pandy  spending  their  wages  in  the  public,  and  laying 
their  hands  on  their  wives  when  they're  wild  with 
the  drink.  You've  never  raised  your  voice  against 
me,  John,  not  once  since  we  began  walking  out  to- 
gether on  the  road  up  Bryndu.  It's  proud  of  you 
[911 


CHANGE 

I've  been  and  proud  I've  spoken,  many  and  many's 
the  time,  amongst  the  women  up  here  on  the  Twmp. 
[Going  slowly  toward  him  with  appeal  creeping  into 
her  voice.]  But  there's  the  children,  too,  John  bach; 
there's  the  children,  too.  I'm  not  only  your  wife. 
I'm  their  mother  as  well. 

Price  [firmly].  John  Henry  was  in  the  wrong, 
Gwen. 

GwEN.  No,  John.  It's  you  who  are  in  the 
wrong.  You've  put  shame  on  him  before  all  Aber- 
pandy.  You've  sent  him  away  as  if  he  was  a 
drunkard  or  a  thief 

Price.    An  unbeliever  isn't  so  much  better 

GwEN.     Whatever  he  is,  he's  our  son 

Price  [stubbornly].  I've  done  what  I  think  is 
right! 

GwEN.  How  can  you  be  doing  right  when  you're 
making  me  so  unhappy? 

Price.  Unhappy?  D'you  think  it's  a  happy 
man  I  am  to-day  and  the  great  hopes  I  had  all  gone 
to  bits?  I  haven't  been  to  a  Cymanfa  Pregethu  for 
the  last  ten  years  but  that,  to  myself,  I  was  thinking 
that  one  day  I  might  have  a  boy  of  my  own  a  great 
preacher,  too. 

Gwen  [kindly].  But  it  wasn't  to  be,  John.  I 
[92] 


CHANGE 

wanted  a  son  in  the  ministry,  too.     But  it  wasn't 
to  be. 

Price.  I'm  only  an  ignorant  collier.  I  had  to  go 
to  the  pit  when  I  was  twelve,  and  I've  suffered  for 
it  all  my  life.  I've  known  what  it  means  to  have 
had  no  schooling.  There's  ideas  come  into  my  head 
at  times  that  I  can't  explain.  I  struggle  and  strug- 
gle and  I'm  dumb  for  want  of  words.  But  I  made  up 
my  mind  that  my  boys  should  have  schooling,  if  I 
worked  myself  to  the  bone  to  give  it.  Lewis  didn't 
have  much,  it's  true,  but  he  was  the  eldest.  And 
we  sent  John  Henry  to  college.  You  know  yourself 
what  it  meant,  and  Gwilym  so  bad.  And  now,  what 
have  we  got  for  it  in  the  end  —  for  all  the  slaving  and 
hoping,  for  all  the  years  of  waiting?  He's  given 
up  the  denomination;  he's  turned  his  back  on  the 
ministry;  he's  denied  his  God! 

GwEN.  Oh!  but  John,  he's  very  young.  And 
he's  miserable,  too.  He  was  reading  for  hours  at 
night  instead  of  going  to  sleep.  I  could  see  by  the 
candle 

Price.  Miserable?  I  don't  wonder.  A  man 
without  religion  can't  help  being  miserable.  What 
would  I  have  done,  all  these  years,  without  my 
religion? 

[93] 


CHANGE 

GwEN.  I  don't  know,  John.  But  there's  some- 
thing in  me,  something  I  can't  explain,  that's  always 
hungry  if  I  haven't  got  the  boys  about.  [Pleadingly.] 
Oh,  John,  John!  Isn't  it  enough  that  we've  got  to 
part  with  our  Gwilym?  Isn't  it  enough  for  me  to 
bear  that  he's  going  away — thousands  and  thousands 
of  miles  away,  and  it's  somebody  else  will  be  looking 
after  him  and  seeing  to  his  things?  When  you're 
working  in  the  pit,  I'll  have  to  be  here,  going  about 
the  house,  where  he  was  always  with  me;  and  all  day 
long  I'll  be  thinking  of  him,  and  him  so  far  away, 
fighting  for  his  life,  with  the  water  between  us! 
It's  hard  enough  on  me  as  it  is,  John  bach.  Don't 
you  go  and  make  it  harder. 

Price.    What  do  you  want  me  to  do? 

GwEN  [insinuatingly].  Well,  you  know,  John, 
you  know  how  stubborn  our  John  Henry  is.  He 
can't  help  it,  poor  boy!  It's  bom  in  him.  You've 
said  yourself  he's  got  Myfanw's  nose  and  chin 

Price.    Well  ? 

GwEN.  Well,  I  was  thinking,  John,  that  you 
might  write  him  a  letter  saying  you  are  sorry 

Price.    Me?    Sorry? 

GwEN  [quickly].  Yes,  John,  you  mustn't  say  no. 
If  you  don't,  he'll  never  come  back  again  till  one  of 
[94] 


CHANGE 

us  is  on  our  death-bed.  It  won't  cost  you  anything 
to  write  a  letter  —  only  a  few  words,  John! 

Price.     So  it's  I  am  in  the  wrong,  Gwen? 

GwEN.  But,  John,  John,  what  does  it  matter 
who's  in  the  wrong  so  long  as  he  comes  back? 

Price  [with  cold  determination],  I  won't  write. 
Not  a  word! 

GwEN  [dravdng  back  a  step.  There  is  a  note  of 
warning  in  her  tone],     John! 

Price  [gravely].  It's  come  to  this.  Gwen  —  are 
you  going  to  let  the  children  divide  us,  after  all 
these  years? 

Gwen  [frightened  by  his  tone].  No,  John  bach, 
don't  say  that.  I  don't  want  anything  to  divide  us. 
I  want  you  all  —  you,  and  John  Henry,  and  Lewis, 
and  Gwilym.  I  want  you  all.  And,  oh,  John,  I 
want  us  all  to  be  quiet  and  happy  together,  just  as 
we  used  to  be  long  ago.  Don't  you  remember, 
John  bach,  how  happy  we  were  here  when  they  were 
little? 

Price  [bitterly].  It's  lucky  we  couldn't  see  the 
future! 

Gwen.  There  was  Lewis  in  the  Infants  down  at 
the  British  School,  and  John  Henry  hanging  on  to 
th^  chairs  all  day  long  as  I  went  abput  th^  bou§^  — • 
1951 


CHANGE 

you  know  he  didn't  learn  to  walk  so  quick  as  Lewis; 
and  there  was  Gwilym  only  a  baby,  with  such  big, 
wondering  eyes  —  d'you  remember? 

Price.    Poor  Gwilym! 

GwEN.  And  then,  as  things  went  on,  you'd  be 
teaching  them  their  verses  for  Sunday,  in  the  even- 
ings when  you'd  washed  all  over,  after  the  work 
was  done.  And  sometimes  we'd  sit  here  talking 
over  what  they  were  going  to  be. 

Price.  I  did  my  best  for  them,  Gwen.  I've 
always  done  my  best. 

Gwen.  And  once  you  took  Lewis  to  Pontypridd 
to  see  Gladstone  —  do  you  remember,  John?  —  and 
held  him  on  your  shoulder  for  nearly  two  hours. 
Happy  days  they  were,  John  —  the  happiest  days 
of  all.  And  all  the  time  I  was  wishing  for  them  to 
grow  up.  That's  the  foolishness  of  us  women,  and 
we're  all  the  same.  When  we've  got  our  children 
for  our  very  own  —  even  then  we're  not  satisfied, 
and  when  they've  grown  beyond  us,  we  want  them 
as  they  used  to  be! 

Price.  We  didn't  think  then  there  would  be  such 
a  disappointment. 

Gwen  [with  mild  rebuke] .  Disappointment  ?  Well, 
tb^r^'s  a  few  people  in  Aberpandy  who've  got  more 
[96] 


CflANGE 

right  to  be  proud  of  their  children  —  taking  them 
through  and  through. 

Price.  There's  not  much  room  to  be  proud  of 
Lewis  that  I  can  see;  and  —  [bitterly]  —  when  I 
think  of  John  Henry,  I  wish  he'd  never  been  bom. 

GwEN.  Can't  you  understand,  John,  whatever 
he's  done,  he's  our  boy  still?  If  he'd  stolen  money 
or  told  lies  —  aay,  if  he'd  killed  a  man  with  his  own 
hands,  he's  our  boy  still;  and  that's  beyond  all 
changing.     [A  pause.]    You  will  write  to  him,  John? 

Price.    No. 

GwEN  [looking  at  him  with  a  little  frovm].  You're 
a  hard  man,  John! 

Price.     I'm  following  my  conscience. 

GwEN.  If  you  loved  him  as  you  ought  to,  you 
wouldn't  think  of  your  conscience.  [She  goes  to 
table  and  folds  up  the  cloth.] 

Price.  It's  not  an  easy  thing  for  a  man  to  send 
his  son  from  his  own  house.  It's  not  an  easy  thing, 
I  tell  you,  for  him  to  walk  about  the  streets  and  know 
he's  had  to  do  it. 

[GwEN  tahes  the  tray  into  the  hack-kitchen, 
and  coming  hack  at  once,  puts  the  cloth 
into  the  dresser  drawer.] 

GwEN  [at  the  dresser].  You  won't  write  to  him,  John? 
[97] 


CHANGE 

Price.    No. 

GwEN  [turning  round  and  speaking  slowly].  Take 
care,  John.  Take  care.  If  you  let  him  go  like  this, 
I'll  never  forgive  you. 

[For  a  moment  they  face  each  other,  neither 
flinching.] 
Price.     So  it's  come  to  this ! 
GwEN  [loith    quiet    menace].     Don't    drive    me, 
John!     [Seeing  him  shake  his  head  sadly,  she  melts 
at  once,  and  adds  in  a  tremulous  whisper.]    Oh,  John, 
don't  drive  me! 

[There  is  a  knock  at  the  door.  Without  wait- 
ing for  an  answer,  Lizzie  Ann  enters. 
GwEN  immediately  assumes  her  normal 
manner,  as  if  anxious  to  hide  her  troubles, 
even  from  Lizzie  Ann.  Lizzie  Ann  is  a 
woman  in  middle  life,  and  of  an  appear- 
ance that  suggests  nfiore  industry  than 
intelligence.  She  is  dressed  in  her  best 
clothes,  sufficiently  humble.  In  one  hand 
she  carries  a  small  dilapidated  dress-basket, 
in  the  other  a  few  roots  wrapped  up  in 
paper.] 
Lizzie  Ann.  Well,  modryb,  here  I  am  —  back 
again. 

[98] 


CHANGE 

Price  [kindly].  I  hope  you  enjoyed  yourself  down 
there  in  Llantrisant,  Lizzie  Ann. 

Lizzie  Ann.  Oh,  yes,  famous!  Thank  you, 
ewyrth.  And  I've  brought  back  a  few  roots  for 
Gwilym 

GwEN.    How  is  your  sister  Morfydd,  Lizzie  Ann? 

Lizzie  Ann  [putting  the  roots  on  the  dresser,  then 
removing  her  coat  and  hat].  Better  than  I  expected, 
modryb,  much  better.  Such  a  nice  little  home 
she's  got  there,  you  wouldn't  believe  —  three  rooms 
up  and  three  down,  counting  the  scullery.  [She  takes 
her  coat  and  hat  to  the  hack-kitchen  door  and  hangs 
them  up  very  carefully.] 

GwEN.    Have  you  had  breakfast,  Lizzie  Ann? 

Lizzie  Ann.  Oh,  yes,  thank  you.  I  was  think- 
ing on  the  way  up,  before  I  met  Mrs.  Howells  the 
Pop  Shop,  I'd  better  change,  and  start  the  washing 
at  once.  [Casually.]  Is  there  a  meeting  this  morn- 
ing? There  were  a  lot  of  men  coming  down  Bryndu 
toward  the  station 

GwEN.  I'm  afraid,  Lizzie  Ann,  we'll  have  to 
put  off  the  washing  till  to-morrow. 

Lizzie  Ann.    Wash  on  a  Tuesday,  modryb? 

GwEN.     I  haven't  put  out  the  things. 

Lizzie  Ann.  Well,  tan  i  marw!  We  haven't 
[99] 


CHANGE 

done  the  washing  any  day  but  Monday  —  not  since 
Gwilym  was  born.  [She  gives  Price  a  side-glance 
of  curiosity.] 

GwEN.     I  —  -  I've  been  upset,  Lizzie  Ann. 
Lizzie  Ann  [with  another  glance  at  Price].    Oh! 
Modryb  fach!    Will  I  do  a  bit  on  the  brass? 

Price.    I  think  I'll  go  down  to  see  Peters  about 
the  ticket,  Gwen. 
GwEN.    All  right. 

[Price  takes  his  hat  and  opens  the  door.    A 

sound  of  voices  going  down  the  hill  is  heard, 

and  in  the  distance,   a    confused   hubbub. 

Price  looks  out  as  if  puzzled,  and  muttering, 

*'Whafs  the  matter?"  he  goes  out.    From 

time  to  time  during  the  dialogue  between 

Gwen  and  Lizzie  Ann  the  noise  is  heard 

again,  not  loudly,  however,  for  both  door  and 

window  are  closed.     Gwen  takes  her  knitting 

from  the  dresser  and  sits  in  the  armchair.] 

Lizzie  Ann  [casually  as  Price  goes  out].     There's 

no  end  to  them  and  their  old  meetings!     [Eagerly  as 

soon  as  the  door  is  closed.]     What  is  it,  modryb? 

What's  he  been  doing  to  John  Henry?    I  met  Mrs. 

Howells  the  Pop  Shop  down  by  the  station,  and  she 

said  he'd  turned  him  out  of  house  and  home. 

[100] 


CHANGE 

GwEN  [with  dignity].  H'm !  So  Mrs.  Howells  the 
Pop  Shop  has  got  hold  of  it,  has  she? 

Lizzie  Ann.  Well,  you  know,  modryb  fach,  how 
neighbors  will  talk.  If  we're  not  going  to  wash 
to-day,  I  suppose  I  may  as  well  do  a  bit  on  the  brass. 
[Goes  into  kitchen  and  speaks.]  Is  it  true  he  turned 
John  Henry  out  because  of  him  taking  to  the  drink.'* 
[She  comes  back  with  apron  and  things  for  polish- 
ing. She  takes  candlesticks  from  mantelpiece  and 
mhs.] 

GwEN  [indignantly].  Drink.''  Our  John  Henry 
drink.'*     Is  that  what's  going  about  the  place? 

Lizzie  Ann.  No,  not  exactly,  modryb.  But 
Mrs.  Howells  was  saying  that,  once  you  send  a 
young  man  to  college,  there's  no  knowing.  Not 
that  I  see  much  harm  in  a  glass  of  beer  myself 

GwEN.  Well,  next  time  you  see  Mrs.  Howells  the 
Pop  Shop,  you  can  tell  her  from  me  that  she'd  better 
be  careful  of  what  she's  saying.  Who  is  she  to  start 
talking  about  us,  I'd  like  to  know?  Why,  it's  a  dis- 
grace the  way  she  lets  them  poor  children  go  out  on  a 
Sunday!  It's  coming  to  something  when  people 
like  us  are  being  talked  of  by  a  woman  like  Polly 
Howells!  Why!  you  know  yourself,  Lizzie  Ann, 
her  father  was  only  a  rag-and-bone  man  living  down 
[  101  ] 


CHANGE 

a  gwli!  [In  her  quiet  way,  she  is,  just  now,  a  picture 
of  outraged  self-respect.] 

Lizzie  Ann.  From  what  she  was  saying,  John 
Henry's  given  up  studying  for  a  preacher,  after  all? 

GwEN.  He's  changed  his  mind;  that's  all,  Lizzie 
Ann.  It's  very  likely  now  he'll  be  going  in  for  the 
teaching.  And  a  very  respectable  position,  too; 
especially  if  he  goes  into  the  intermediate. 

Lizzie  Ann.  Oh,  yes!  I  don't  deny.  There's 
Willie  Meredith  now,  son  of  Meredith  the  Bread. 
Wears  a  box-hat  every  Sunday,  so  they  do  say. 

Gwen.  I'm  not  saying  that  John  Henry  and  your 
uncle  didn't  have  a  few  words;  but  there's  no  need 
for  people  to  talk  —  especially  some  people !  I  dare 
say  your  uncle  will  write  to  him  one  of  these  first 
days.  And,  next  time  you  see  that  Polly  Howells, 
you  can  tell  her  that  John  Henry  has  gone  to  London 
for  a  bit  of  a  holiday  with  the  choir.  [Pronounced 
"koyer."] 

Lizzie  Ann.  Oh,  I'll  let  her  know,  come  you. 
True  or  not,  I'll  let  her  know. 

Gwen.  And  if  you  just  reminded  her  who  she 
is,  and  where  she  came  from,  there  wouldn't  be  so 
much  harm  done  either. 

Lizzie  Ann.  But  one  thing  I  must  say  for  her 
[  102  1 


CHANGE 

whatever  —  she  spoke  very  kind  about  of  my  sister 
Morfydd.  Nothing  would  do  but  I  must  tell  her 
all  about  the  house.  And  it  is  a  nice  little  home, 
there's  no  denying,  clean  as  a  pin  in  paper,  upstairs 
and  down,  and  our  Morfydd  mistress  of  it  all,  and 
proud  as  the  Queen  of  England! 

GwEN  [quietly  and  smiling  to  herself].  Ah,  yes! 
I  know.  [A  pause.]  What  is  she  hoping  for  —  a 
boy  or  a  girl? 

Lizzie  Ann.  Well,  indeed,  one  day  one  thing  and 
next  day  another.  Of  course  he's  all  for  a  boy.  I'm 
hoping  it's  going  to  be  a  boy  myself,  and  then  they 
can  name  him  Daniel  Richard  after  the  two  grand- 
fathers   

GwEN.  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know,  indeed! 
You  haven't  got  the  same  hold  on  boys  when  they 
grow  up 

Lizzie  Ann.     No.    That's  true,  of  course 


GwEN.  There's  work  to  be  done;  and  one  goes 
here  and  another  goes  there 

Lizzie  Ann.  Have  you  heard  any  more  from 
your  sister-in-law  in  Australia? 

GwEN.  Yes.  We  had  a  letter  just  after  you  went 
to  Llantrisant.  It's  fixed  now  that  Gwilym  will  go 
in  five  weeks*  time. 

[  103  ] 


CHANGE 

Lizzie  Ann.  Diwedd  anw'l!  Five  weeks?  So 
soon  as  that?  [She  stops  toork  in  order  to  digest 
the  news.] 

GwEN.  Doctor  Willie  Jenkins  says  it  will  be  the 
making  of  him 

Lizzie  Ann.  What  the  house  will  be  like  without 
him,  I  don't  know. 

GwEN.  And  in  a  few  years  he'll  be  coming  back 
strong  and  well.  I'm  almost  afraid  to  believe  it, 
Lizzie  Ann.  I'm  almost  afraid  to  believe  I'll  ever 
see  him  strong  and  well.  If  only  God  will  spare 
till  that  day  —  how  glad  I'll  die! 

Lizzie  Ann.  He's  been  a  good  boy  to  you, 
modryb. 

GwEN.  Yes.  He's  been  a  good  boy  to  his  mother. 
So  have  they  all.  Lewis  and  John  Henry,  too; 
they've  all  been  good  to  their  mother.  But  Gwilym's 
always  been  home  here  with  me,  and  they've  been 
busy  with  one  thing  and  another 

Lizzie  Ann.  Yes,  Gwilym's  different  somehow. 
I  know  what  you  mean.  Whatever  you  say  or 
don't  say,  Gwilym  always  understands.  If  he  was 
my  boy,  the  wind  shouldn't  blow  on  him.  It  won't 
be  so  easy  to  part  with  him  —  when  the  time  comes. 

GwEN  [tremulously].  No.  But  we  must  try  not 
[1041 


CHANGE 

to  lose  heart,  Lizzie  Ann,  and  then  Myfanw'  will  be 
sure  to  be  kind  to  him.  She's  got  no  children  of 
her  own. 

Lizzie  Ann.  No,  I  know.  I  never  thought 
much  good  would  come  of  that  barman.  [A  pause.] 
Suppose  now,  modryb,  he  was  never  to  come  back. 

GwEN  [sharply].  Never  come  back?  Don't  talk 
so  foohsh,  Lizzie  Ann!    Of  course  he'll  come  back. 

Lizzie  Ann.  His  Aunt  Myfanw'  didn't  come 
back.  [Struck  by  a  sudden  fear,  Gwen  lets  her  knit- 
ting drop.]  I  was  thinking  she  might  take  to  him 
altogether  and  leave  him  her  money  after  her  days. 
And,  again,  he  might  get  married  out  there 

Gwen  [rising].  What  d'you  mean,  Lizzie  Ann? 
You  think  she'll  try  to  turn  him  from  me  and  keep 
him  to  herself? 

Lizzie  Ann  [apologetically].  I  was  only  thinking, 
modryb;  that's  all. 

Gwen  [vrith  agitation].  He  wouldn't  do  it.  He 
wouldn't  do  it,  I  tell  you.  I'm  his  mother.  He'll 
always  love  me  best  of  all. 

Lizzie  Ann.  I  only  meant  —  well,  you  know 
what  boys  are  —  how  they  grow  up  and  forget. 

Gwen  [urith  vehemence].  But  he  won't  forget. 
What  does  it  matter  about  the  others?  I  never 
[105] 


CHANGE 

heard  such  nonsense  as  you're  talking,  Lizzie  Ann  — 
never  in  all  my  life. 

Lizzie  Ann.  But,  modryb  fach,  I  was  only  just 
saying 

GwEN.  All  the  same,  I'll  have  to  think  it  over. 
She  might  do  it.  She's  just  that  sort  of  woman  — 
so  strange  and  full  of  feeling.  She's  hungry  to  have 
children  about  her.  I  know,  I  know!  But  she 
shan't  have  mine  —  not  our  Gwilym.  He  shan't 
go  if  it  comes  to  that 

Lizzie  Ann.    But  you 

GwEN.  No.  He  shan't  go.  [Turning  fiercely  on 
Lizzie  Ann.]  And  you're  a  wicked  woman,  Lizzie 
Ann,  to  be  putting  such  thoughts  into  my  head ! 

Lizzie  Ann  [injured].    Wicked?    Me,  wicked? 

GwEN.  I'll  talk  to  his  father.  We  can  write  an- 
other letter  

Lizzie  Ann.  And  how  about  his  health,  poor 
boy 

Gwen.  We  must  find  some  other  way.  Some- 
thing must  be  done.     I  —  I  —  I [She  bursts 

into  tears  and  drops  into  the  armchair,  her  power  of 
resistance  broken  once  again.]  I  want  to  keep  him, 
Lizzie  Ann!  If  he  was  to  turn  to  Myfanw'  —  it 
WQuId  break  my  heart. 

[  106  ]  , 


CHANGE 

Lizzie  Ann  [melting  at  once].  There  you!  There 
you  now,  modryb  fach!  I  didn't  think;  that  was 
all. 

GwEN.    And  you  said  he  might  get  married 

Lizzie  Ann.  Twt!  Twt!  We  haven't  even  heard 
of  a  sweetheart  yet. 

GwEN.  You  can  venture  it  would  be  somebody 
not  half  good  enough  for  him.  You  know  what  the 
girls  are  to-day ! 

Lizzie  Ann.  There's  plenty  of  time  before  think- 
ing of  that. 

GwEN.  If  he'd  let  me  choose  her  for  him,  I 
wouldn't  mind  so  much 

Lizzie  Ann.  Come  you  now.  Don't  you  fret 
like  this.  It's  John  Henry  going  away  that's  upset 
you. 

GwEN.  It  wasn't  right,  Lizzie  Ann  —  what  I 
told  you  —  about  John  Henry.  His  father  did 
turn  him  out. 

Lizzie  Ann.  Yes.  I  knew  that  all  the  time. 
[Cheerfully.]  Now  I'll  make  a  cup  of  tea  in  half  a 
minute.  [Clearing  away  the  candlesticksy  while 
GwEN  slowly  dries  her  eyes.]  And  we'll  have  it  by 
here,  nice  and  quiet. 

[The  murmur  outside  rises.     There  is  a  great 
[107] 


CHANGE 

7 

shout.    GwEN  looks  up.    Lizzie  Ann  at  the 

mantelpiece  turns  round  quickly.] 

Lizzie  Kth^  {going  quickly  toward  window].  What's 

that?     [Looking  out.]    Diwedd  anw'l,  they're  down 

there  at  the  crossing  in  their  hundreds! 

[GwEN  rises  and  goes  toward   the   window. 

Lizzie  Ann  goes  to  the  door  and  opens  it. 

The   angry   noise  of  the   crowd   comes  in 

more  loudly.] 

Lizzie  Ann  [starting].    Duw    mawr!    Look! 

Gwen  [looking  through  the  vnndow].    What  is  it? 

Lizzie  Ann.    Soldiers! 

Gwen.     Where's  Lewis?    Oh,  yes!   Lithelarlwr. 

But  Gwilym?     Ble  mae  Gwilym? 

Lizzie  Ann.    He'll  be  safe  in  somebody's  house. 

Here's  your  husband  and  Isaac  Pugh  coming. 

Gwen.     What's  going  on,  Lizzie  Ann?    I  can't 

see  so  clear  as  I  used  to. 

Lizzie  Ann.    The  soldiers  —  down  there  —  d'you 

see?    They're  keeping  the  men  back  from  the  gates. 

Gwen.    They're  rushing.    Listen! 

[There  is  a  roar  of  voices. 

Lizzie  Ann.    And   they're   being   driven   back. 

Can   you    see?    Look!    They're    throwing    stones 

again  —  over    the    wall    before    Roberts's    house. 

[108] 


CHANGE 

Duw,  Duw !  They've  hit  one  of  the  soldiers.  Look ! 
look!  His  face  is  all  over  blood.  [She  shrinJcs.] 
Oh,  ach! 

GwEN.  Oh!  Poor  man!  Poor  man!  And 
there's  two  more  hurt.    D'you  see,  at  the  back? 

Enter  Price  and  Isaac  Pugh. 

Price.    Is  Lewis  here? 

GwEN.  Where's  Gwilym,  John?  He  isn't  down 
there? 

Price.  He's  safe  in  Roberts's  house.  Where's 
Lewis? 

Enter  Lewis  from  the  parlor.    He  is  quivering  with 
excitement. 

1*RICE.     Come  down  to  the  crossing.     Quick! 

GwEN.  No,  Lewis.  No!  [To  Price.]  How  can 
you  ask  him? 

Pugh.  We've  done  our  best.  They  won't  Ksten 
to  us.    The  soldiers  can't  stand  it  much  longer. 

Price.  They  say  you've  got  most  power  over  the 
men.  Come  and  use  it,  for  God's  sake,  before 
there's  murder  done! 

[109] 


CHANGE 

Enter  hurriedly  Twm  Powell. 

TwM.  It's  now  or  never,  Lewis.  They've  brought 
the  soldiers  over  the  hill.  The  train's  coming  up  the 
valley. 

Lewis.  I'm  coming,  Twm.  It's  got  to  be 
stopped. 

PuGH.     They'll  shoot! 

Twm.     No.     They've  only  got  blank;  that's  all. 
[Lewis  moves  to  go.    His  father  stops  him.] 

PuGH.     They  said  they'd  have  to  shoot. 

Lewis  [brushing  his  father  aside].  Then,  damn 
them,  let  them  shoot!     Come  on,  Twm. 

[GwEN  intercepts  him  on  the  way  to  the  door, 
trying  to  hold  him  hack.] 

GwEN.  You  shan't  go,  Lewis !  O  boy  bach,  boy 
bach,  what  if  they  kill  you? 

Lewis  [putting  her  aside  and  laughing  grimly]. 
I  shan't  be  the  first.       [He  goes  out  followed  by  Twm. 

GwEN  [to  Price].  Go  after  him,  John.  Don't 
let  them  hurt  him.  He's  young  and  wild,  that's 
all,  that's  all. 

Price.     Come  on,  Pugh. 

[Price  and  Pugh  go  out  together. 
GwEN  [as  they  go].    Don't  let  them  hurt  him. 
[110] 


CHANGE 

[Wringing  her  hands.]  Oh,  the  trouble  that's  in  the 
world!  [She  goes  to  the  vnndow.]  Where  is  he? 
Where's  our  Lewis? 

Lizzie  Ann.    There  he  is,  running  down  the  hill. 

GwEN.  They're  throwing  stones  again.  Oh! 
Why  don't  they  go  home?  Why  don't  they  go  home 
quiet? 

Lizzie  Ann.  There's  another  soldier  hurt.  Look! 
They're  dragging  him  behind. 

GwEN.  What  are  they  going  to  do?  Look  at 
him  —  that  one  —  the  leader,  talking  to  the  sol- 
dier  

Lizzie  Ann.  He's  going  to  fire  in  the  air  —  to 
warn  them.     [Shot  vrithout.] 

Gwen.    Arglwyddmawr!    They're  rushing  again. 

Lizzie  Ann.  There's  the  train.  I  can  see  the 
smoke  down  the  valley. 

Gwen.     Look!    Look!    Isn't  it  Lewis? 
-   Lizzie  Ann.    Yes.    There  he  is  in  the  front 

Gwen.  He's  climbing  the  wall  by  Roberts's 
house.  He's  shouting  to  them.  Lewis!  Lewis! 
Go  down!  [She  bends  forward,  and  gives  a  frightened 
shriek.]  There's  our  Gwilym.  Look!  He's  on  the 
wall,  trying  to  pull  Lewis  away 

Lizzie  Ann.    There's  four  soldiers.    0  Dduw! 
[UIJ 


CHANGE 

Don't  look!    Don't  look!    They're  going  to  shoot! 
[She  drags   Gwen   away  from  the  window. 
There  is  a  sound  of  firing  without,  joUowed  by 
deep  silence.    In  a  whisper.] 
They've  done  it! 
Gwen  [pointing  to  the  window].    Look! 
Lizzie  Ann  [shuddering].    I  can't. 
Gwen.    You  must! 
Lizzie  Ann.    I  can't. 

[Gwen  wavers  a  moment^  and  then  forces  her- 
self toward  the  window  and  looks  out.] 
Gwen.     They're  carrying  some  one  into  Roberts's 
house.    It's  Lewis.    No,  there's  Lewis!     [She  bends 
forward;  then  in  a  harsh  voice.]    Lizzie  Ann,  come 
here! 

[Lizzie  Ann  goes  quickly  to  her,  and  looks  out. 
She   starts   and  turns  away,   sobbing  out, 
"Oh,  machgen  bach-il"] 
Gwen.    Is  it  —  Gwilym? 
Lizzie  Ann.    Yes.    Gwilym! 

[For  a  moment  Gwen  stands  swaying  to  and 
fro.  Then,  with  a  cry  of  anguish,  she  falls 
prostrate  on  the  floor.] 

Curtain 
[lU] 


ACT  IV 


ACT  IV 

Time:  Afternoon  of  a  day  Jive  weeks  later. 

Scene  :   The  same. 

Lizzie  Ann  is  at  the  table  making  cake.  She  is 
dressed  in  black.  Her  sleeves  are  rolled  up  to  the 
elbow.  Her  face  is  lit  up  by  gladness.  She  has 
paused  in  her  work  to  talk  to  Sam,  who,  seated  in  the 
chair  by  the  window,  looks  at  her  with  an  air  of 
satisfied  proprietorship.  The  chair  from  left  of 
dresser  is  close  to  table  on  left  side. 

Sam.    So  that's  settled,  eh,  Lizzie  Ann? 

Lizzie  Ann.  It's  kind  of  you  to  ask  me,  Sam. 
"  Sam  [with  a  touch  of  condescension],  Ow  no!  Ow 
no!  Of  course,  I  don't  say  yer  'aven't  got  a  taidy 
sort  of  plaice  'ere  as  things  go.  There's  no  denyin' 
it  was  kaind  of  'em  ter  taike  yer  in  when  yer  fawther 
was  killed,  and  orl  that.  But  yer've  worked  'awrd 
for  yer  keep. 

Lizzie  Ann  [resuming  her  work].  Well,  I  sup- 
[  115  ] 


CHANGE 

pose,  Sam,  every  woman  wants  a  little  home  of  her 
own.  I've  been  working  hard  all  my  life.  And 
I'm  not  so  young  as  I  was,  Sam. 

Sam.  Well,  come  ter  that,  I  ain't  no  chicken, 
either. 

Lizzie  Ann  [with  hesitation].  Somehow,  I  don't 
seem  to  see  myself  as  a  married  woman 

Sam.  I  ain't  exactly  bin  'avin'  visions  of  meself 
as  a  married  man,  either  —  not  till  laitely  any'ah. 
But  there's  sich  a  lot  of  funny  things  bin  goin'  on 
this  lawst  couple  o'  months,  a  man  maite  get  married 
and  buried  withaht  so  much  as  noticin'  it.  Nah,  as 
I  was  tellin'  yer,  I've  been  off-^red  this  'ere  job  dahn 
at  the  goods-yard  in  Cwmyglo.  It  ain't  a  fortune 
—  twenty -three  bob  a  week;  but  it's  more  than  I 
was  gittin' 

Lizzie  Ann.  But  a  woman  can  make  it  go  a 
long  way  —  if  she's  saving,  Sam.  'Tisn't  the  same 
as  if  I'd  be  wanting  to  send  out  any  of  the  washing 
or  to  have  a  girl  coming  in  now  and  then.  I  know 
the  way  to  work.    That's  one  thing,  whatever! 

Sam.  And  I  dare  say  they'll  give  me  something 
better  later  on.  It  orl  comes  of  stickin'  ter  the  Com- 
pany in  the  rileway  straike ! 

Lizzie  Ann.  Yes,  you  were  wise  there,  Sam, 
[116] 


CHANGE 

though  there's  many  here  in  Aberpandy  were  look- 
ing so  black  at  you. 

Sam.  You  bet!  I  ain't  knocked  abaht  this 
bloomin'  old  world  for  nothin'.  Look  at  Dai  Mat- 
thews, nah!  'E's  'ad  the  push  from  the  Board 
School.     Orl  comes  of  openin'  'is  math  tew  much. 

Lizzie  Ann.  Aay,  poor  feller!  Mrs.  Howell  the 
Pop  Shop  was  telling  me  she'd  heard  he  was  thinking 
of  going  to  foreign  parts. 

Sam.  Yus.  Aht  to  Australia,  I  b'lieve.  Nah,  I 
reckon  from  wot  the  foreman  tells  me,  I'll  be  shifted 
dahn  ter  Cwmyglo  in  abaht  five  or  six  weeks;  and 
we  could  git  married  just  before 

Lizzie  Ann  [agitated  by  some  romantic  spasm]. 
Oh,  Sam,  so  soon  as  that? 

Sam.  Well,  it  won't  be  any  use  me  goin'  into 
lodgin's  dahn  there.  I'd  be  more  comfortable  in 
my  own  'ouse.  We  could  git  a  bit  o'  furniture  on 
the  'ire  system. 

Lizzie  Ann.  Where  were  you  thinking  we'd 
better  go,  Sam  —  to  get  married,  I  mean.'' 

Sam.  Well,  I  was  thinkin'  of  the  registry  or- 
fice 

Lizzie  Ann.     No,  Sam  bach,  not  the  office 


Sam.     But  I  don't  maind  so  long  as  we  git  over  it 
[117] 


CHANGE 

quick,  laike.  And  we  maite  spend  the  day  in 
Cawdiff,  and  'ave  a  bob's  worth  at  the  Empire. 

Lizzie  Ann  [still  romantic].  Oh,  Sam!  I  must 
write  and  tell  our  Morfydd. 

Sam  [meditatively].  Yus.  It's  the  best  way.  I 
don't  want  no  more  lodgin's.  Of  course,  I  ain't 
sayin'  nothin'  agen  me  plice  'ere.  I've  bin  comfort- 
able enough  in  a  way  of  speakin' 

Lizzie  Ann.  Yes,  I  know,  I  know.  But  it 
isn't  like  having  a  little  home  of  your  own  after  all, 
is  it,  Sam? 

Sam.  But  this  lawst  month  'as  fair  given  me  the 
bloomin'  'ump.  There's  the  missis,  nah,  she  gives 
a  feller  the  blues  every  taime  'e  claps  eyes  on  'er. 

Lizzie  Ann.  Oh,  but,  Sam,  it  was  an  awful  blow 
for  her  —  losing  poor  Gwilym  like  that.  I  don't 
think  she'll  ever  get  over  it.  She  was  always  dull 
on  him,  poor  boy;  fair  dull  she  was. 

Sam.  Yus.  But  wot's  the  use  o'  worry  in'  over 
it?  That's  wot  I  sez,  wot's  the  use  o'  worryin'? 
*Tain't  as  if  worryin'  would  bring  'im  back. 

Lizzie  Ann.  But  a  woman  can't  help  her  feel- 
ings, Sam.  How  can  she?  I  know  how  it  would  be 
on  me,  if  I  was  his  mother.  And  then  there  was 
John  Henry  again.  Just  fancy  him  going  on  the 
[118] 


CHANGE 

stage  like  that,  and  brought  up  so  respectable, 
too! 

Sam.  My  dear  gel,  the  boy  'ad  ter  earn  a  livin' 
some'ah.  'E  couldn't  stawrve.  It  ain't  orl  beer 
and  skittles  singin'  in  the  chorus  of  a  mewsical 
comedy.  Couple  o'  quid  a  week  'e'll  git,  I  suppose. 
It  ain't  so  bad,  yer  know.  And  the  *stawrs,'  they 
git  anythin'  up  ter  a  hundred  and  fifty  pahnd  a 
week 

Lizzie  Ann.  A  hundred  and  fifty  a  week?  Cer- 
ona,  Sam ! 

Sam.    Fact ! 

Lizzie  Ann  [reflectively].  Well,  a  man  can  afford 
to  put  up  with  a  bit  of  disgrace  when  he's  getting 
a  hundred  and  fifty  pound  a  week  for  it.  Can't  he 
now?     But  his  father  was  furious,  all  the  same. 

Sam.  'E  would  be.  'E's  narrer-mainded.  That's 
wot  'e  is.  Wot  can  yer  expect  of  a  man  brought  up 
in  an  'ole  laike  this? 

Lizzie  Ann.  Anyhow,  you  can  be  pretty  sure 
John  Henry  won't  show  his  face  here  again  for 
years.  It's  hard  on  his  mother,  poor  woman!  I 
don't  know  what's  come  over  her.  It  isn't  like  her 
to  be  setting  me  to  make  the  cake  like  this.  That's 
the  one  thing  she  would  always  do  herself.  And 
[119] 


CHANGE 

there's  she's  been,  all  day  long,  up  in  poor  Gwilym's 
room 

Sam.  Well,  p'raps  yer  couldn't  expect  her  ter 
look  at  it  in  a  proper  laite.  But  there's  Lewis,  nah! 
Wot  can  yer  mike  of  Lewis? 

Lizzie  Ann.  Aay.  There's  a  change  come  over 
Lewis.  It's  hard  to  understand  it,  but  after  all, 
Sam,  you  mustn't  forget  Gwilym  was  his  own  flesh 
and  blood.  It's  a  pity  he  hasn't  gone  back  to  work 
like  the  others.  There's  no  good  can  come  of  him 
moping  about  all  day  like  this. 

Sam.  'E's  gittin'  on  me  nerves,  is  Lewis.  I 
cawnt  stand  it.  I  tell  yer  strite  this  'ere  'ouse  is 
gittin'  as  solemn  as  a  church;  and  I  don't  want  a 
church;  I  wants  a  bit  o'  comfort.  Nah  there  was 
lawst  naite.  The  old  people  'ad  gawn  ter  bed. 
Lewis  come  'ome  very  laite,  and  'e'd  bin  drinkin' 
'awrd 

Lizzie  Ann.  It's  a  pity,  Sam,  and  him  such  an 
abstainer  as  he  used  to  be;  but,  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  it  isn't  such  a  wonder! 

Sam.    Well,  ter  put  it  in  plain  English,  'e  was 

clean  up  the  pole  was  Lewis,  and,  some'ah,  there  was 

a  kaind  of  waild  look  abaht  'im.     I  oflFered  him  a 

paipe  o'  baccy,  sociable-laike,  and  stawrted  torkin' 

[120] 


CHANGE 

ter  'im  in  a  friendly  way;  but  'e  didn't  tike  much 
notice.  Orl  of  a  suddin',  up  'e  jumps  and  grips  me 
by  the  awrm.  "It  wasn't  my  fault,"  'e  sez  in  a 
*oar.se  voice,  "it  wasn't  my  fault.  Nobody  can  say 
it  was  my  fault."     And  I  felt  'im  tremblin'  all  over. 

Lizzie  Ann.     Did  you  now?     Poor  Lewis  bach! 

Sam.  'E  began  walkin'  abaht.  Then  'e  stopped, 
shiverin'  agen,  and  waite  as  a  sheet.  "There's  a 
ghost  in  the  'ouse,"  'e  sez;  "I'll  never  'ave  peace  any 
more. ' '  And  then  —  would  you  believe  it ?  —  before 
I  know  wot  ter  say,  dahn  'e  goes  on  'is  knees  by  the 
taible  'ere  with  'is  'ead  on  'is  'ands,  and  stawrted 
prayin'  —  yus,  prayin'  and  cryin'  tergether,  and 
'arf  drunk  all  the  taime.  Mide  me  feel  bloomin' 
uncomfortable,  I  can  tell  yer!  Nah  wot  can  yer 
mike  of  a  man  goin'  on  laike  that?  It's  worse  than 
Shewni  Good-lookin'  in  the  Revaiv'l,  and  I  thought 
'e  was  abaht  the  limit!  It's  taime  I  cleared  aht. 
Orl  this  is  gittin'  on  me  nerves.  If  it  goes  on  much 
longer,  I'll  be  seein'  things  meself . 

Lizzie  Ann  [who  does  not  seem  to  see  anything 
very  extraordinary  in  Sam's  tale].  Of  course,  there's 
no  real  blame  on  Lewis.  He  didn't  know  what 
was  going  to  happen.    But  he  was  always  so  fond 

of  Gwilym 

1121] 


CHANGE 

Sam.  Yus,  but  fancy  'im  cryin'  and  prayin' 
laike  that,  till  the  perspiraish'n  come  aht  orl  over 
me.  And  'im  —  only  two  months  ago,  maind  yer 
—  a  shainin'  laite  in  the  Ethical  Society,  and  turnin' 
up  'is  nose  at  the  very  idear  of  the  Almaighty. 
It  ain't  good  enough.  I  gives  it  up.  I  can  under- 
stand Scotchmen.  I've  got  the  'ang  of  niggers  and 
Chinamen.  But  the  ways  of  the  Welsh  are  beyond 
me  —  quaite  beyond  me. 

Lizzie  Ann  [ingenuously].  D'you  see  something 
funny  about  us  then,  Sam.^* 

Sam.  Funny?  Ow  Lor!  I  do;  and,  wot's  more, 
I  seem  ter  see  the  Recordin'  Aingel  lookin'  dahn  and 
scratchin'  'is  'ead  pretty  'awrd. 

Lizzie  Ann  [listening].  Here's  modryb  coming 
down  from  Gwilym's  room. 

Sam.  I'm  goin'  for  a  turn  before  tea.  There's 
tew  much  sorrer  in  'er  fice  for  me. 

[He  goes  to  the  door. 

Lizzie  Ann.  And,  Sam,  don't  tell  about  us  — 
you  know  —  not  yet. 

Sam.     Raiteow!  He  goes  out. 

[The  kitchen  door  opens,  and  Gwen  is  seen  in 

the  doorway,  dressed  simply  in  plain  black. 

She  is   slower   and  heavier  in   movement. 


CHANGE 

Her    voice    is    softer    and    more    wistful. 
Throughout    the    act,    though    habit    drives 
her  to  take  up  her  knitting,  she  does  little 
more  than  sit  with  the  work  in  her  hands. 
She  shows  only  an  intermittent  interest  in 
what  takes  place  around  her,  and  her  mind 
seems  to  revert  continually  to  her  sorrow. 
From  time  to  time  she  sighs  quietly,  and 
murmurs  to  herself.     Since  Gwilym's  death 
she   has   aged   very   much,   as   if  breaking 
under  the  burden  that  has  been  laid  upon 
her.] 
GwEN.     Where's  your  uncle,  Lizzie  Ann? 
Lizzie  Ann  [with  some  surprise].    He  hasn't  come 
down  from  the  pit  yet.     It  isn't  time. 
GwEN.     Where's  Lewis? 
Lizzie  Ann.     Out  somewhere,  modryb. 
GwEN.     Making  cake  you  are? 
,  Lizzie  Ann.     Yes.     I  thought  I'd  better  get  a 
bit  ready. 

GwEN.    Have  you  got  everything? 
Lizzie  Ann.    Yes,  for  this  lot.     But  we're  get- 
ting short  of  currants.     You  said  you  were  going  to 
order  some  more. 
GwEN.    Yes?     [Puzzled.]     I'm  not  quite  sure.    I 
[123] 


CHANGE 

ordered  something,  I  know.  Did  you  tell  me  about 
the  currants? 

Lizzie  Ann.     Oh,  yes!    I'm  sure! 

GwEN  [going  slowly  to  the  dresser  and  taking  up 
the  grocer^ s  books].     When  was  it,  Lizzie  Ann? 

Lizzie  Ann  [with  a  glance,  half  curious,  half 
startled].     Why,  day  before  yesterday,  of  course! 

GwEN.  Oh,  yes !  Day  before  yesterday.  I  was 
forgetting.  No.  There's  no  currants  down  here. 
P'raps  you'll  see  to  it,  Lizzie  Ann? 

Lizzie  Ann.  All  right.  And  how  about  bees- 
waxing the  upstairs?  I've  been  thinking  it  would 
do  just  as  well  next  Monday  ■ 

GwEN.  You  think  it  would  do  just  as  well  next 
Monday? 

Lizzie  Ann.  And  I  thought  that  on  Saturday  I 
could  run  down  to  see  our  Morfydd.  It'll  be  getting 
a  bit  anxious  on  her  now,  and  her  so  near  her  time. 

GwEN  [with  appeal].  Oh,  Lizzie  Ann  fach,  don't 
go  away!  I  can't  spare  you,  not  even  for  a  day. 
It's  so  lonely  in  the  house. 

Lizzie  Ann  [temporizing].  Well,  some  day  next 
week,  then. 

Gwen  [taking  her  knitting  from  the  dresser  drawer, 
and  going  to  the  armchair].  Yes;  next  week  —  next 
[124] 


CHANGE 

week!  [There  is  a  pause,  during  which  Lizzie  Ann 
works  energetically,  while  Gwen  falls  into  reverie.] 
It's  to-day  he  was  to  go. 

Lizzie  Ann.  To  go?  Who?  [Remembering.]  Oh, 
yes!    Poor  Gwilym! 

Gwen.  I  was  just  breaking  my  heart  only  to 
think  of  him  crossing  the  water;  and  now  he's  in  his 
grave  up  there  on  the  hill  by  Horeb;  and  the  grass 
will  be  growing  above  him,  and  I  won't  see  him  any 
more. 

Lizzie  Ann.  Don't  vex,  modryb  fach!  Don't 
vex! 

Gwen.  There's  his  bed  up  there  empty,  where  he 
used  to  lie,  and  the  pictures  looking  down  that  he'd 
see  when  he  woke  in  the  morning.  There's  the 
world  going  on  just  the  same,  and  men  and  women 
walking  about  in  the  streets.  But  he's  in  his  grave 
by  Horeb,  and  they've  put  his  name  on  the  cold, 
white  stone. 

Lizzie  Ann.  It  was  the  will  of  God,  modryb 
fach!  That's  what  uncle  said  it  was  —  the  will  of 
God! 

Gwen.  God's  far  away,  Lizzie  Ann,  far  away 
in  the  kingdom  of  heaven;  but  Gwilym  was  here  as 
I  went  about  the  house.  There  was  always  a  kind- 
[125] 


CHANGE 

ness  in  his  voice,  and  his  hands  were  always  ready  to 
smooth  away  all  the  troubles.  There's  no  comfort 
in  your  words,  Lizzie  Ann  —  no  comfort  at  all! 

Lizzie  Ann  [sighing].  Ah,  well!  P'raps  you're 
right.     P'raps  you're  right,  after  all ! 

GwEN.     And  there's  John  Henry  gone  away 

Lizzie  Ann.    He'll  be  back  one  of  these  days. 

GwEN.     I  know  him,  Lizzie  Ann.     I  know  him! 

Lizzie  Ann  [with  an  effort  at  cheerfulness].  You'll 
see,  modryb  f ach,  wait  you !    Wait  you ! 

GwEN.  Aay.  Wait!  Wait!  Wait!  But  wait- 
ing won't  bring  Gwilym  back  from  his  grave  by 
Horeb.  Waiting  won't  blot  out  the  words  John 
Henry  and  his  father  said  in  this  room  that  Sunday 
night.  Oh!  If  only  waiting  would  make  them 
babies  once  more,  how  glad  I'd  be  waiting!  That 
was  the  time,  Lizzie  Ann.  That  was  the  happy 
time;  but  I  never  knew.  It's  for  me  they  cried 
when  there  was  anything  the  matter.  It's  I  that 
washed  them  and  dressed  them  and  gave  them  food. 

Lizzie  Ann.  He  was  always  a  good  baby  was 
Gwilym. 

Gwen.  Yes.  A  good  baby  —  a  good  baby, 
lying  so  quiet  all  day,  with  such  big,  thoughtful 
eyes  he  had.  And  there  was  Lewis,  too,  always 
[126] 


CHANGE 

hanging  on  to  my  skirt,  with  his  'Mam!  Mam! 
Mam!'  all  day  long. 

Lizzie  Ann.  Aay.  He  was  always  a  handful, 
was  Lewis ! 

GwEN.  And  John  Henry  —  there  was  a  picture 
of  a  child  for  you  now!  [Lizzie  Ann  nods  sympa- 
thetically.] And  clever  —  oh,  clever  beyond!  I  can 
see  him  now,  even  before  he  was  put  in  trousers, 
marching  up  to  the  set  fawr  to  say  his  verses  on  a 
Sunday  night.  Never  a  mistake,  never  —  though 
Isaac  Pugh's  William  Ewart  would  break  down  as 
often  as  not.  And  then  he'd  look  toward  me  and 
smile  —  so  pretty  he  was  —  and  the  deacons  would 
pat  him  on  the  head. 

Lizzie  Ann.  Aay.  It's  proud  a  woman  must 
feel,  very  proud !     I  was  telling  our  Morfydd 

GwEN.  I  can't  help  thinking  of  your  sister 
Morfydd  these  last  few  days.  She's  got  the  grand 
times  before  her,  Lizzie  Ann,  the  same  as  I  had  then. 

Lizzie  Ann.  Yes.  She  ought  to  be  happy  ought 
our  Morfydd,  such  a  nice  little  home  she's  got,  and 
him  earning  regular  money ! 

GwEN.  And  she'll  be  having  children,  one  after  an- 
other —  little  children  that  will  be  all  her  own  for  a 
long,  long  time.  It's  to  her  they'll  be  running  all 
[  127  ] 


CHANGE 

the  day  long;  and  when  they're  tired,  she'll  put  them 
to  bed,  and  sing  some  song  she  learnt  from  her 
mother,  till  they  fall  to  sleep. 

Lizzie  Ann  [whispering].    Yes!    Yes!    Yes! 

GwEN.  And,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  without 
waking  up  at  all,  she'll  feel  her  baby  coming  closer 
when  she  moves.  She'll  be  laughing  without  know- 
ing as  she  goes  about  the  house,  and  sometimes 
she'll  be  afraid  and  can't  tell  why.  Oh,  yes !  She'll 
he  having  the  happy  time  —  the  happiest  time  of 
all !  And,  till  it's  gone,  and  there's  change  come  over 
everything,  she'll  never  know. 

Lizzie  Ann  [reflectively].  But,  I  think  when  a 
woman  has  children,  she  couldn't  help  wishing  to  see 
them  grown  up. 

GwEN.  Oh,  yes !  When  you  see  the  men  coming 
home  from  work,  strong  and  tired,  and  the  dirt  of 
the  pit  on  their  faces,  and  the  smell  of  it  on  their 
clothes  —  it's  different  then.  You  can't  help  think- 
ing of  the  women  putting  the  water  for  them  to 
wash,  and  laying  the  tea,  and  making  the  place  nice 
and  homely. 

Lizzie  Ann.  Ah,  yes!  I  can  understand  the 
feeling.  If  there's  one  thing  a  woman  do  like  to  see, 
it's  the  men  sitting  down  tired  to  their  tea,  with 
[  128  ] 


CHANGE 

their  faces  clean,  and  the  smell  of  the  soap  about 
them. 

GwEN.  But  there's  times  when  she'll  be  dream- 
ing. There's  this  and  that  keeps  running  in  her  head, 
and  sometimes,  though  she's  only  a  workingman's 
wife,  she  can't  help  having  big  ideas. 

Lizzie  Ann.  Well,  nobody  can  say  you  didn't 
give  the  boys  the  best  chance  you  could. 

GwEN.  And  now,  if  I  tell  the  truth,  what  was  it 
all  for  —  the  waiting,  and  the  dreaming,  and  all  the 
big  ideas ?  [Rising  and  turning  away.]  For  nothing ! 
For  nothing  at  all! 

Lizzie  Ann  [protestingly].    But,  modryb  fach 

^  GwEN  [swinging  round  to  face  Lizzie  Ann].  For 
nothing,  I  tell  you.  All  the  ways  of  our  life  have 
changed,  as  we've  just  gone  on  from  one  day  to  an- 
other. There's  something  in  the  world  here  a 
woman  can't  understand  —  something  strong  and 
cruel,  and  waiting  always.  It's  a  terrible  thing, 
Lizzie  Ann,  for  a  woman  to  live  so  long,  and  find  in 
the  end  that  there's  something  stronger  than  all 
her  love. 

Lizzie  Ann.  But  there's  Lewis  still!  Wara 
t6g  for  Lewis.  He's  got  his  faults;  but  nobody  can 
say  he's  a  bad  son. 

[129] 


CHANGE 

GwEN.  You  mean  he  doesn't  swear  at  me,  like 
Mrs.  Harris's  Evan  next  door?  He  doesn't  beat  me 
like  Gomer  Rees  beats  his  poor  mother?  So  I 
ought  to  be  thankful,  Lizzie  Ann?  You  think  I 
ought  to  be  thankful?  [Sitting  down  and  shaking 
her  head,  with  a  wan  smile  oj  resignation.]  Well, 
p'raps  you're  right,  after  all.  P'raps  you're  right! 
P'raps  you're  right! 

Lizzie  Ann.  I  don't  imderstand  what  you 
mean  modryb. 

GwEN.  Never  mind!  Never  mind!  [Glancing  at 
the  clock  and  changing  her  tone.]  Isn't  it  time  to  be 
laying  the  tea? 

Lizzie  Ann.  Diwedd  anw'l,  yes!  They're  com- 
ing down  from  the  pit.  [She  takes  the  things  from 
table  into  the  kitchen,  and,  returning  with  the  crockery y 
she  takes  the  cloth  from  dresser  drawer  and  spreads  it.] 

[Knock  at  the  door. 

Lizzie  Ann.    Come  in. 

Enter  Dai  Matthews  and  Twm  Powell.  Dai 
is  dressed  as  before,  Twm,  coming  straight  from  the 
pit,  is  in  his  working  clothes.  He  has  a  "jack"  in  one 
pocket  and  a  "box"  in  the  other.  His  face  is  black 
with  coal  dust. 

[130] 


CHANGE 

Dai.     Prydnawn  da  'chi,  Lizzie  Ann.     Prydnawn 
da  'chi,  Mrs.  Price. 
^TwM.     Shwt  ych-chi  nawr? 

Lizzie  Ann  and  Gwen.    Prj^dnawn  da! 

Dai.     Is  Lewis  in,  Mrs.  Price? 

Gwen.  Not  yet,  indeed,  Dai.  But  he'll  be  home 
before  long  now.     Sit  down,  you! 

[TwM  takes  the  chair  to  the  left  of  dresser. 
Dai  takes  that  by  the  window.  He  seems 
rather  downcast.] 

TwM.  Dai  came  up  to  meet  me  out  of  work,  so 
we  thought  we'd  look  in  to  see  Lewis.  He  hasn't 
started  work  with  us  others. 

Gwen.  There's  no  hurry  —  no  hurry!  You've 
only  begun  just  over  a  week. 

Lizzie  Ann.  He  isn't  quite  up  to  the  mark  these 
last  few  weeks. 

Dai.  I've  heard  he's  not  looking  very  well.  I 
haven't  seen  him  for  some  time  myself. 

Gwen  [anxiously].  He's  not  looking  so  bad  as 
all  that  —  d'you  think,  Lizzie  Ann? 

Lizzie  Ann  [humoring  her].  No,  no!  He's  not 
quite  himself;  that's  all.  [To  Dai.]  Is  it  true,  Dai, 
you're  going  to  foreign  parts? 

Dai.    Yes.    I'm  going.    I've  had  the  sack. 
[131] 


CHANGE 

TwM.  There'll  be  a  day,  though,  when  the 
friends  of  the  workingman  won't  be  treated  like  that. 

Lizzie  Ann.     Where  are  you  going,  Dai? 

Dai.  To  Australia.  [Gwen  starts.]  I'm  leaving 
to-morrow.  I  thought  I'd  just  call  in  and  say  good- 
bye to  Lewis. 

Gwen.  To  Australia?  Did  you  say  to  Australia, 
Dai?  Our  Gwilym  was  going  to  Australia.  Did 
you  hear  about  it,  Dai?  He'd  have  been  sailing 
to-day.     [She falls  into  abstraction.] 

Lizzie  Ann  [changing  the  subject].  I  suppose 
you're  not  sorry  to  be  in  work  again,  Twm?  [Lay- 
ing the  things  on  the  table.]  It's  a  sad  place  is  Aber- 
pandy,  when  there's  no  winding  on  the  hill  and  no 
black  faces  coming  down  Bryndu. 

Twm.  It's  starved  back  we've  been,  Lizzie  Ann, 
and  the  trouble  isn't  settled  Uke  that. 

GwEN  [who  has  not  been  listening].  P'raps 
you've  got  relations  out  there?  Our  Gwilym  was 
going  to  his  Aunt  Myfanw'.  Sister  to  his  father 
she  is. 

Dai.     No,  Mrs.  Price.     I've  got  no  relations  out 
there.     I'm  going  out  on  a  cattle-boat,  altogether 
on  chance.     Has  Lewis  said  anything  about  going 
back  to  the  pit,  Mrs.  Price? 
[132] 


CHANGE 

GwEN.  Not  yet,  indeed.  But  there's  plenty  of 
time,  plenty  of  time! 

TwM.  Nor  about  any  other  job  he  had  in  view  — • 
nothing  about  Carmarthenshire? 

Lizzie  Ann.    No.     We  haven't  heard  a  word. 
[Dai  and  Twm  look  at  each  other  in  surprise.] 

GwEN.  There's  dozens  not  gone  back  yet — dozens. 

Dai.  Yes,  I  know.  But,  if  you'll  take  it  in  the 
right  spirit,  Mrs.  Price,  I'd  say  you  might  drop  him 
a  hint  all  the  same.  There  were  many  down  on  him, 
as  they  were  on  me,  over  the  strike;  and  they  might 
say  he's  too  lazy 

G WEN  [bridling  up].  Lazy?  So  that's  what  they're 
saying  now,  is  it?  There's  not  a  lazy  bone  in  his 
body.  Didn't  he  wear  himself  out  for  them  in  the 
strike,  from  early  morning  till  late  at  night,  and  half 
of  them  on  their  backs  in  bed  till  dinner? 

Lizzie  Ann  [who  has  finished  laying  the  table, 
and  is  just  going  toward  kitchen].  S — sh!  Here  he 
is !     [She  goes  into  kitchen.] 

Enter  Lewis.    He  is  wearing  the  same  suit  as  before, 

but  with  a  black  necktie,  and  a  band  of  crepe  on  his 

arm.     His  face  is  pale  and  haggard.    His  natural 

restlessness  has  grown  considerably.     There  is,  also, 

[133] 


CHANGE 

a  new  element  in  his  manner  —  a  certain  feverish 
furtiveness,  in  which  he  looks  from  one  to  another, 
as  if  racked  by  suspicion  and  always  on  the  watch. 
Seeing  Dai  and  Twm,  he  attempts  to  assume  an  easy 
and  familiar  attitude. 

Lewis.    Hullo,  Dai?    Shw'  ma'i,  Twm? 

Dai  [looking  ai  him  closely].  Oh,  weddol,  Lewis. 
Weddol! 

TwM.     Pretty  fair,  indeed! 

[Lewis  takes  up  a  position  at  the  back,  leaning 
against  the  dresser.  There  is  a  short  and 
rather  awkward  pause,  in  which  he  looks 
from  Dai  to  Twm,  and  then  away  through 
the  window.] 

Lewis.    Ah!    Here's  Sam! 

Enter  Sam. 

Sam  [in  the  doorway].  'Ullo!  'UUo!  'UUo!  Shoo 
duckee  hay  dee,  boys?  Gawn  back  ter  work  then, 
Twm?  [He  goes  to  chair  left  of  table,  and,  turning  it 
round,  sits  on  it,  facing  the  visitors.]  Well,  I  thought 
yer  would! 

[GwEN,  meanwhile,  is  watching  Lewis,  who 
has  begun  to  smoke  a  cigarette  in  his  uneasy 
manner.    Lizzie  Ann  comes  in  with  the  loaf.] 
[134] 


CHANGE 

GwEN  [to  Lewis  in  a  soothing  voice].  Would  you 
like  a  nice  bit  of  toast,  Lewis,  and  a  boiled  egg? 

Lewis  [scarcely  noticing].  Yes,  diolch!  Diolch 
I  s'pose  there's  a  good  many  asking  why  I've  not 
gone  back  to  work,  eh,  Twm? 

GwEN.  Twt!  Twt!  Never  you  mind,  Lewis! 
[To  Lizzie  Ann.]  Plenty  of  butter,  Lizzie  Ann,  and 
mind  you  not  to  boil  the  egg  hard. 

[Lizzie  Ann  nods  and  goes  out.] 

Sam  [to  Dai].  So  they've  given  it  yer  in  the  neck, 
Dai?     Got  the  push,  'aven't  yer? 

Dai.     Yes,  I've  had  to  go. 

Sam.     Goin'  abroad,  so  I  'ear? 

[Lewis  looks  toward  Dai  with  new  interest.] 

Dai.  Yes,  I'm  leaving  to-morrow.  I'm  going 
out  to  Australia, 

Lewis  [eagerly].  You're  going  to  Australia,  Dai? 
To-morrow?  Have  you  got  sick  of  it,  too?  Aay! 
It's  the  place  where  a  man  could  forget  things 

Dai.  I'm  going  because  I  must.  Australia's  the 
country  for  those  who  believe  in  the  Labor  Move- 
ment. 

[Lewis  makes  a  gesture  of  impatience.     Gwen 
is  watching  him  with  growing  anxiety.] 

Sam.     Cost  yer  a  bit  ter  git  there,  Dai! 
[  135  ] 


CHANGE 

Dai.  Oh,  no!  I'm  going  to  work  my  passage. 
D'you  remember,  Lewis?  I  told  you  —  a  cattle- 
boat.     There's  three  or  four  of  us  going 

Lewis.  Oh,  yes!  Yes!  Yes!  [Trying  to  sup- 
press  his  eagerness.]  You  said  —  didn't  you  —  I 
think  you  said  there'd  be  plenty  of  room? 

[GwEN,  grasping  the  arm  of  the  chair,  half 
rises,  whispering  *  Lewis  T  in  a  startled 
tone.] 

Dai  [not  seeing  Gwen's  movement].  There's  more 
now  than  ever.  Two  that  I  know  have  backed  out, 
now  that  it's  time  to  go.     I  thought  they  would. 

TwM  [trying  to  he  casual].  By  the  way,  Lewis, 
now  that  we're  talking,  how  about  that  new  district 
in  Carmarthenshire?  [Lewis  looks  puzzled.]  You 
remember  Dai  telling  you? 

Lewis.  Carmarthenshire?  Oh,  yes!  Yes!  And 
about  Pinkerton?    Oh,  yes,  of  course! 

GwEN.  Were  you  thinking,  Lewis,  of  going  to 
work  in  Carmarthenshire? 

Dai.  It's  a  good  job,  Mrs.  Price  —  agent  for  a 
district  that's  bound  to  grow.  Pinkerton  got  them 
to  postpone  the  appointment 

GwEN.     Well,  I  won't  try  to  stand  in  your  light, 
Lewis.     I  don't  so  much  mind,  since  it's  Sh6r  Gar  — 
[136] 


CHANGE 

if  you've  made  up  your  mind  to  go.  There's  a  lot 
of  your  father's  people  down  there.  [Forgetting 
what  she  was  going  to  say,  she  falls  into  thought.  Then 
she  sighs,  and  quietly  brushes  her  hand  over  her  eyes,] 

TwM.  I  suppose  now,  Lewis,  there's  no  doubt 
you'll  take  it? 

Lewis  [looking  at  TwM  toith  a  qv^er  smile\.  No,  I 
won't  take  it,  Twm. 

'DKi[in  surprise].  What?  Won't  take  it?  Didn't 
you  always  say 

TwM[his  eagerness  breaking  through].  No?  You're 
sure?  Then  you  might  —  p'raps  you'll  put  in  a 
word  for  me,  Lewis?  You  know  how  much  I've 
done  for  the  cause 

Dai.     But  think,  Lewis,  think 


Lewis.  I  don't  want  to  think.  I'm  sick  of  think- 
ing.    I  want  to  forget ! 

Sam.     Wot's  up,  old  feller?    Forgit  wot? 

Lewis  [with  a  look  of  unspeakable  pain,  as  he 
points  toward  the  crossing].    That  —  down  there! 

GwEN  [rising  to  her  feet].    Lewis,  'nghariad-i! 

Dai.     But,  Lewis  bach,  it  wasn't  your  fault 

Lewis  [imploringly].  No!  No!  It  wasn't  my 
fault!  It  wasn't  my  fault,  was  it,  Dai?  It  wasn't 
my  fault,  was  it,  Sam? 

[  137  ] 


CHANGE 

Sam.  O' course  not!  Wot  puts  sich  an  idear  into 
yer  'ead? 

Lewis  [muttering  to  himself].  No,  it  wasn't  my 
fault !    It  wasn't  my  fault ! 

TwM.     You  mustn't  think  of  it  like  that 

Lewis.  Not  think  of  it?  I  tell  you  it's  with  me 
day  and  night,  and  night  and  day.  I  shall  never 
have  peace  and  simple  sleep  again!  If  I  shut  my 
eyes  now,  I  can  see  it  before  me ; 

GwEN.     Lewis !     Lewis ! 

Lewis.  I  can  see  it  before  me,  I  tell  you  —  all,  all, 
aU!  The  crowd  about  the  gates  —  the  faces  moving 
to  and  fro  —  the  sun  shining  on  the  rails  —  the 
soldiers  —  there  they  are  in  two  brown  lines,  and 
there's  one  with  blood  running  down  his  face.  And 
there  are  sounds  that  keep  coming  into  my  mind  — 
the  shouting,  and  the  rushing,  and  women  shrieking 
—  I  don't  know  where.  It's  all  so  clear,  so  horribly 
clear.  And  then  —  I  heard  Gwilym  calling  to  me. 
He  tried  to  pull  me  away.  They  fired  —  and  there 
he  was  at  my  feet,  dead  —  my  brother  Gwilym  — 
dead! 

[There  is  a  long  pause.  Lewis  covers  his  eyes 
with  his  hands.  Gwen  is  heard  crying  to 
herself.] 

[138] 


CHANGE 


Dai.  Aay,  Lewis,  it  was  a  terrible  thing  to 
happen.  But,  Lewis,  as  true  as  I'm  sitting  here, 
I  see  no  blame  on  you. 

Lewis.  No!  I  didn't  know,  Dai,  did  I?  It 
wasn't  my  fault.  Nobody  can  say  it  was  my  fault. 
How  could  I  tell  what  was  going  to  happen?  I'd 
have  seen  the  strike  in  hell  and  all  Aberpandy  with 
it,  before  harm  should  come  to  a  hair  of  his  head. 

TwM.  All  you  did  was  what  you  thought  best 
for  the  cause. 

Lewis  [looking  away].  Ah!  There!  I  wonder! 
I  wonder? 

Dai.  Come,  Lewis,  come!  You  were  the  most 
sincere  of  us  all. 

Lewis.  Yes.  I  was  honest  enough  in  my  way. 
But  I  had  ambition  —  I  wanted  power.  All  my 
life,  I'd  wanted  that  —  power,  power!  I  was  poor; 
but  there  was  something  always  whispering  to  me, 
driving  me  on  and  on.  It  sent  me  to  the  night- 
school;  it  sent  me  to  books;  it  sent  me  to  politics;  and 
—  [pointing  toward  the  crossing]  —  it  sent  me  there! 

TwM.  Dewch,  mun,  dewch!  Look  here  now, 
never  mind  about  me.  You  take  that  job  in  Car- 
marthenshire. 

Lewis.  It's  no  use.  I've  lost  all  heart.  D'you 
[139] 


CHANGE 

know  what's  the  matter  with  me,  Twm?  I'm  a 
haunted  man.  Sleeping  and  waking,  I'm  a  haunted 
man.  There's  a  ghost  in  Aberpandy  that  will  not 
let  me  rest.  It's  looking  at  me  always  with  his 
kind,  kind  eyes.  And  I  am  afraid.  D'you  want  to 
know  why  I  haven't  gone  back  to  work?  Because 
I'm  afraid  —  afraid  of  his  voice  in  the  echoes,  afraid 
of  his  face  down  there  in  the  dark,  with  the  shadows 
moving  across  the  coal.  I'm  a  beaten  man.  I'm  a 
beaten  man.  And  all  I'm  asking  now  is  a  place 
where  I  can  forget. 

Enter  Price  in  his  working  clothes,  vdth  "jack"  and 
"box^*  and  the  dust  of  the  pit  upon  him.  Seeing 
the  visitors,  he  halts  a  moment,  and  his  manner 
grows  stiff  and  frigid. 

Dai.    Dydd  da  'chi,  Mr.  Price. 
Price  [abruptly].    How  d'you  do? 
Twm.     Nice  day  again! 

[GwEN  rises  as  if  to  give  the  armchair  to  Price.] 
Price  [kindly].    No,  no!    Sit  down,  you. 

[He  crosses  in  front  of  table,  and  takes  the  chair 
by  parlor  door,  facing  the  visitors.] 
Dai.    So  you've  started,  too,  Mr.  Price? 
[140] 


CHANGE 

GwEN  [toward  back-kitchen].  Put  the  water  for 
your  uncle  to  wash,  Lizzie  Ann. 

Lizzie  Ann  [without].    All  right. 

Price.  Aay,  I've  started.  [With  a  glance  toward 
Lewis.]  Started  first  day,  and  glad  of  the  chance, 
too,  after  being  out  all  these  months,  for  nothing. 

TwM.  Well,  it's  true  we  didn't  get  our  terms  this 
time 

Price.  There  were  men  here  told  you  you 
wouldn't,  too ! 

TwM.  But  we'll  get  them  in  the  end,  don't  you 
fear.    The  trouble  isn't  ended  yet. 

Price.  Aay!  That's  the  kind  of  talk  I  hear 
them  using  coming  down  Bryndu.  A  man  would 
think,  after  all  we've  been  through,  even  the  young- 
sters had  had  enough  for  a  bit,  whatever.  But  I 
suppose  it's  no  use  trying  to  make  them  see  reason. 

Sam.  No,  boss.  Not  a  bit!  It's  always  struck 
me  as  peculiar  that  a  man  don't  develop  common- 
sense  till  'e's  pawst  the  taime  when  it  would  come 
in  useful. 

TwM.  Well,  I'll  say  this,  anyhow  —  we'd  be  in 
a  better  position  to-day,  all  of  us,  if  we'd  stuck  to- 
gether, old  men  and  young. 

Sam.  I've  noticed,  'ahever,  that  when  one  lot 
[141] 


CHANGE 

o'  men  awsks  another  lot  o'  men  ter  stick  tergether, 
it  generally  means  foUerin'  the  partickler  views  of 
them  wot  awsks. 

Price.  You've  put  that  fellow  Pinkerton  into 
Parliament.     I  don't  know  what  more  you  want. 

Dai.  I'm  not  sure  it's  putting  men  in  Parliament 
that's  going  to  save  the  working  cla.sses. 

Price.    Not  men  like  Pinkerton. 

TwM.  We've  got  to  work  till  we've  organized  the 
unions  so  well  that  we  can  call  out  every  worker  in 
the  country  at  a  day's  notice.  "Direct  Action" — 
that's  what's  got  to  come,  and  that  won't  come  till 
we've  got  solidarity  in  Labor. 

Price.  Talk!  All  talk!  Wait  till  you're  over 
sixty,  and  then  you'll  see. 

Dai.     See  what? 

Sam.  Yer'U  see  another  pack  of  youngsters 
torkin'  of  things  yer  don't  understand,  and  maikin' 
'ell's  delaite  of  wot  yer  set  most  store  by.  Yer'll 
see  yerselves  comin'  dahn  on  'em  laike  a  thahsand  o' 
bricks.  And  yer'll  all  be  the  saime  bloomin'  fools 
as  yer  f awthers  before  yer. 

Dai.  Wait,  Sam.  There's  such  a  thing  as  prog- 
ress. 

Sam  [with  a  circular  movement  of  his  hand].  Rahnd 
[142] 


CHANGE 

and  rahnd,  that's  'ow  things  go.     I'm  gettin'  on 
in  years.     I  know  —  rahnd  and  rahnd. 

Dai,  Yes.  But,  Sam,  what  if  the  centre  is 
moving  on? 

Price.  It's  no  use  talking,  Sam.  I  talked 
enough  to  Lewis. 

Lewis  [grimly].  That's  true  enough,  anyhow. 
[To  Sam,  reflectively.]  I  wonder,  Sam,  if  you're 
right ! 

Sam.  Don't  wonder,  me  boy.  I've  bin  abaht  the 
world.     I  know. 

Lewis  [to  Twm  and  Dai].  They  may  say  what 
they  like — if  the  strike  was  to  go  on,  we  had  to 
stop  the  blacklegs  coming  in. 

TwM.  Yes.  That's  where  they  beat  us.  No- 
body had  the  heart  to  tackle  them  again  after  — 
after  

Price  [grimly  and  quietly].  After  Gwilym  was 
killed.  Oh,  aay!  You  thought  you'd  arranged  it 
all  very  fine.  But  I've  lived  in  the  world  for  more 
than  sixty  years,  and  I've  never  seen  good  come  out 
of  anything  that  was  in  the  hands  of  unbelievers. 

Lewis  [with  irritation].  Oh,  don't  begin  all  that 
again! 

GwEN.     Nawr,  John.     It's  time  to  wash. 
[  143  ] 


CHANGE 

Price.  No.  It  doesn't  do,  when  the  evil  has 
happened,  to  mention  the  cause. 

Lewis  [with  gathering  anger].  I  tell  you  I  can't 
stand  such  talk !  We  didn't  know  what  was  going  to 
happen.     It  wasn't  my  fault!     I  acted  for  the  best! 

Price.  A  man  who  has  acted  for  the  best  ought 
to  have  a  clean  conscience. 

Lewis  [startled].  A  clean  conscience?  What 
d'you  mean?     [Defiantly.]    What  d'you  mean? 

Price.  There  oughtn't  to  be  any  need  for  him  to 
blind  himself  with  drink. 

GwEN  [rising].     Nawr,  John,  nawr! 

Lewis  [advancing  a  step  angrily].  There's  noth- 
ing on  my  conscience.  It  wasn't  my  fault!  It 
wasn't  my  fault ! 

Price  [rising].  You  can't  work.  You  can't  sleep. 
You  know ! 

Lewis.  Be  careful!  Be  careful!  I  tell  you! 
Don't  drive  me  too  far! 

GwEN  [moving  to  get  between  them] .    John !    Lewis ! 

Price  [stopping  her  with  a  single  gesture].  Taw 
s6n,  Gwen.     [To  Lewis.]     God  is  not  mocked. 

Lewis  [hotly]  You're  down  on  me.  You've  al- 
ways been  down  on  me.  I  followed  the  truth  as  I 
saw  it.  I  took  my  stand  openly.  I  haven't  lied  to 
[144] 


CHANGE 

myself,  or  covered  things  up  with  cant.  If  the  men 
listened  to  me  more  than  to  you,  I  couldn't  help  it. 
You've  been  jealous  of  me.  All  along  you've  been 
jealous  —  you  and  Isaac  Pugh,  and  all  the  lot  of  you! 

Price.  You  set  yourself  up  against  the  Almighty 
in  the  blindness  of  your  pride,  and  you  wouldn't 
listen  when  I  warned  you. 

Lewis.     Humbug!    All  humbug!    You  were  jeal- 


ous 


Price.  You  had  to  learn  your  lesson,  like  many 
more  before  you.  He's  there,  and  He's  watching. 
He's  put  a  judgment  upon  you.  [Lewis  shrinks  a 
little.]  Yes,  He's  put  a  judgment  upon  you,  and  it's 
the  brand  of  Cain ! 

[Groaning  out  "0  Uffern!"  through  his  clenched 
teeth,  Lewis  raises  his  fist  to  strike  his 
father.  Gwen  shrieks.  There  is  a  general 
movement  in  the  room.  The  old  man  does 
not  quail,  but  meets  Lewis  squarely,  eye  to 
eye.  Suddenly  Lewis's  anger  collapses, 
and  his  hand  drops  to  his  side.  The  look  of 
haunting  and  of  anguish  comes  over  his 
face.  He  staggers  back,  and  supports  him- 
self against  the  table.] 
Lewis  [in  a  low,  broken  voice].  Yes,  it's  true  — 
[145] 


CHANGE 

the  brand  of  Cain!  The  brand  of  Cain!  The 
brand  of  Cain !  I've  felt  it  —  down  in  my  heart  — 
all  the  time.     All  the  men  and  women  in  the  street 

—  I'm  wondering  if  they're  saying,  "There  he  is,  the 
man  who  killed  his  brother."  All  these  weeks  I've 
been  waiting  to  hear  somebody  say  it  —  five  long 
weeks  —  waiting  to  hear  somebody  say  it;  and  now 

—  it's  said! 

GwEN.     Don't  you  mind  him,  machan-i.     He's  a 

hard,  hard  man 

Dai  [turning  toward  the  door].     I  think  we'd  better 
be  going. 

[TwM  and  Sam  go  out.    Lewis  rushes  to  Dai, 
and  grips  his  arm.] 
Lewis.     No,    Dai,    I    want    you.     [To    Gwen.] 
Ma'am,  I'm  going  away,  far  away. 
Gwen.     Going  away.?    No,  no,  no! 
Lewis  [looking  at  his  father].    You  heard  what 
he  said,  ma'am  —  "  the  brand  of  Cain"  ?   His  face  has 
been  saying  it  all  the  time.     His  face  will  say  it  for- 
ever.    If  I  stay  here,  sooner  or  later,  it  will  make 
me  kill  him. 
Price  [going  toward  the  kitchen].     I'm  not  afraid. 

[He  goes  out. 
Gwen.    You   mustn't   leave   me,    Lewis.    You 
[146] 


CHANGE 

mustn't  leave  me.  There's  John  Henry  gone  away, 
and  Gwilym  in  his  grave  forever.  What  shall  I  do? 
What  shall  I  do,  if  I  haven't  got  one  left,  and  old 
age  coming  heavy  upon  me? 

Lewis.  There's  no  help  for  it,  ma'am.  [To  Dai.] 
Dai,  I'm  coming  with  you  to-morrow. 

Dai.  Don't  be  impulsive,  Lewis.  Think  it 
over.  [Exit. 

GwEN.  Don't  be  hard  on  me,  Lewis.  Don't  be 
hard.  Think  what  it  will  be  for  me  in  this  old 
house,  one  year  after  another. 

Lewis.  It's  too  late !  too  late !  I'm  going  where 
there  are  no  hills  to  keep  a  man  thinking  always,  and 
perhaps  some  day  I'll  forget.  [Moving  toward  the 
door.]     I  want  peace!  peace!  [He  goes  out. 

[GwEN  throws  herself  into  the  armchair,  rock- 
ing herself  to  and  fro  disconsolately.] 

GwEN.  Not  one,  after  all !  O  Dduw,  not  even 
one.     Dim  un!     Dim  un! 

curtain 


[147] 


THE  COUNTBT  LIFE  PBESS 
■GAKDEN  CITY,  N.  T.^ 


Date  Due 

PRINTED  IN  U.S.*.                CAT.    NO.    24     )61                 (Wj 

UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  812  176     6 


J 


